It is very strange going through the motions of rule. I can do it like breathing, like walking, in a complete reflex. But it now seems so ... unnatural. How did I do this for so long? How will I do anything else? It is both comforting and completely unsettling.
His thoughts are held. They are not written down (to be discovered by some nosy or opportunistic servant or scribe). They are not shared from heart to heart, feeling to feeling, from himself to the empty chair beside him, to a husband who is no longer there, or any member of his family. He keeps such in reserve, like gold in a vault.
It seems in this season of sleeping that one world is divorcing another. That something is being left behind. Promises, perhaps. But maybe it's just me.
He sits in the courtyard in the middle of autumn's evidence, surrounded by trees now bare of leaves, the ground littered with color like a painting in the process of melting. He is dressed in autumnal colors of brown and charcoal grey, in a long-coat over trousers and layers of shirts. It is vaguely military, somewhat naval, and certainly authoritative.
He has watched the autumn come, not from the window of his villa, but from the windows of a foreign keep and kingdom. The trees are different. The golds and reds are not the same. There is nothing familiar but the reflex routine of rule and the face of his youngest son, his current, and only travel companion. Anierin has been invaluably helpful. Who better to understand the emotions of young men who have lost a father?
Iowerth Rhudd Draig looks to the ledgers in front of him, to the last notes made by Eric of River's End. He makes a note: Most excellent point, Exchequer. By your calculation, it appears you will have plenty of wheat and rice for the winter, under budget of last year. Congratulations.
With an exhale, Iowerth closes the book and sets the pencil aside. He takes up his cup of tea and a servant arrives. "Please forward that to Prince Eric," Iowerth directs quietly, amenably. "I believe that does it for the work of the day." He pauses, smiling a little. "Until dinner, that is."
The secretary bows. "Certainly, your majesty. Is there anything else? More tea? I can send the valet..."
Iowerth shakes his head. "No, that won't be necessary, Master Dylan. I thank you. I'm fine."
The secretary nods, bows, and with the balance and budget sheets and another day's instructions, takes his leave.
Periwinkle eyes take note of the colors on the ground, of the passing of the day, and of the passing of time.
There is a tap...
Not at the door but at the window...
It's odd, isn't it? With the weather this cold and blustery, with the leaves falling from the trees, why should anyone be trying for your attention from there? Outside there are plenty of evergreen bushes; the royal family likes something to look at, even in the middle of winter. Unripe little berries show between prickly leaves. Your brother's throne is secure.
But the throne which you are so kindly guarding, is it as secure? Outside the french doors there is a man bundled against the weather. He looks as if he could be one of the gardeners; he wears a long navy-blue coat that's seen better days, a brownish-grey woolen cap jammed down around his ears and red muffler wrapped to hide half his face. He's employing a rake now, gathering the falling leaves. Perhaps it was the end of the rake which tapped the window.
But no; the tap comes again, two deliberate little motions, and he covertly glances over his shoulder, shrewd blue eyes seeking your face. What will you do? Will you open the door to him, or call for the guards? Quickly, he looks around the gardens again. Nobody else seems much in evidence. Even the starlings have found better places to be. And the wind catches the ends of his muffler, blasting them backwards with frigid air. Winter is on its way in.
His eyes focus from the view outside the window to the knock and then to the one knocking. There is no change to his expression -- quietude, meditation, some might say brooding -- and no semblance of surprise to have his afternoon disturbed.
Rising, his long coat folding around him, Iowerth moves to the French doors. He does not yet open them, though he is hardly paranoid. But not recognizing a man with a pointed implement in his hands, while you are a Visiting Dignitary, and not immediately opening the door isn't paranoia; it's just good sense.
...Structurally, glass is like a liquid...
Amorphous, its molecules may be shifted by one who knows how liquids work. Hand to the chilly surface, his palm and fingers pressed, Iowerth looks to the... gardener, raising a bronzed eyebrow in question. "May I be of some assistance?"
His voice does not move past the glass, muffled, as it might if it were anyone else. It appears beside you, quietly and as clearly as if he were standing there himself, in the cold, next to you and your rake.
His eyes only looked blue at first; now that they meet yours, it's clear that they're unyielding grey, widening as they do as he suddenly hears your voice despite the closed doors. Quickly, he ducks his head again, making a show of raking the leaves. This time, though, the handle doesn't tap. He's already gotten your attention.
He doesn't know if the sound goes both ways, but he'll take it on faith that it does. The 'gardener' keeps his head down. "Your majesty. Sorry to interrupt, but if you wouldn't mind meeting me in twenty minutes in the west turret, I'd be most appreciative." His voice is quiet but crisp and authoritative, a man who knows of what he speaks and doesn't wish to waste time. "If Queen Maria were here, it'd be her I'd be seeking, but as you're here in her stead, I believe I should make my report to you." A corner of his mouth turns up slightly, visible to you as he neatly and without seeming haste piles leaves up against a bush. "Ah; I'm being precipitate. Forgive me. We've met before, although I daresay it was forgettable enough. Andrew of Aberavon. Your servant, sir."
"Certainly," his voice sounds through the door, past the glass of the window, but not loudly. "And I remember you. My apologies. With the cap and the rake, I was not sure." Which is to say: not recognizing you and with you having a pointed implement, he wasn't going to throw wide the door.
He may be a brooding former king, but he's no one's fool...
"I shall see you there." Your name is not repeated. The glass is listening, the walls are listening, the bushes are listening: god knows who else is. Removing his hand from the glass, Iowerth's voice and presence retracts. He can be seen through the glass, turning and picking up his cup of tea. He has time to finish that certainly.
The West Turret. It will likely take him twenty minutes to find it.
He smiles again, slightly, and bends to his work. Bit by bit, he retreats from the gardens until, as a gardener, he swings his rake up to his shoulder, appearing well-satisfied with his day's work. Whistling softly, he makes his way to the maintenance shed; and from there, out of sight.
He is very good at what he does. As he rounds the corner, Andrew is reversing his jacket, straightening it out, brushing his hair back. His cap is folded small and tucked inside the jacket; loam is kicked from his boots and he draws a silk handkerchief over his face, wiping wrinkled lines from it so that it is again poised and polished and smoothly unremarkable. He pulls marshmallows from his cheeks, so that they go from reasonably-fed old age plumpness to his normal saturnine lines, tossing the candies casually into a pile of compost and knocking leaves over. Ducking behind a bush, he allows the guards to pass without seeing him; he is very good at being unrecognized, uninteresting, unseen.
The west turret is reached ahead of the guard's rounds, and he lets himself in by way of the guard-door and a skeleton key in under fifteen seconds. Jogging silently up the stairs, Andrew pauses on the second-floor landing, head cocked; he draws quietly into a closet as an oblivious maidservant passes him by, and then lets himself out once she, too, has passed. The third floor is reached, just as outside the weather begins to break, rain spattering against the walls with a sudden and vicious howl of the wind, just as he reaches the top floor with its sumptuous apartments, presently unoccupied. He makes a quick but thorough search of the room, drawing closed the drapes over the windows. Only then does he strike a light - and, now that he has done all that, put on an air of calm repose, sinking into a chair with an out of date, out of fashion volume of poetry, affecting an appearance of having been there reading for hours. He looks cozily set up, warm, dry, and content when you enter. The only thing lacking is a glass of wine and plate of cheese. Lord Andrew of Aberavon turns the page, mellow appearance belying the fact that he listens most carefully to be sure it is your tread on the stair and not another's.
There is something to the cadence of a King. Sitting or Former, there is a kind of snap of purpose, of being efficient with one's time which can be heard quite plainly in one's steps and how one takes to a set of stairs. It can also be heard in how quiet everything else becomes, the snap-to of an entire building.
The steps slow outside the door, slow to a stop and to announce his arrival: the tap-TAP-tap of a majesty, that then... not knowing if it is early, on-time, or late, enters. Unlike some sitting kings, particularly those in other dimension, this king or Emeritus has military experience. It is evident in how he enters, his body turned instinctively so as not to give anyone that much of a target.
"Lord Andrew," his voice is quiet, unhurried, "I apologize if I have kept you waiting." Iowerth Rhudd Draig closes the door behind him. As it appears that I have. He makes no other apology than that. You know he's new here. But in way of apology, there is a sudden serving of tea and some sort of spiced wine. Habit.
"Not at all, not at all, my dear sir." Andrew lays the book aside with nonchalant panache, smile curving the corner of his mouth again as he rises and bows to you. Grey eyes flick to beyond you, reassuring himself that you have in fact arrived alone. "Do be at home, won't you? I'd lay claim to the suite for myself, but that honor is not mine. This is the habitual suite of the varied mistresses of the sitting king of this place - well, baron in the past, I suppose, but the point still stands."
He accepts a glass of wine, saluting you with it. "It has of late been in use again, but since his majesty's passing, not so recently; although from my investigations and observations, I have reason to believe it used less for mistresses and more for other matters. It is unfortunate, as it means the secret of this place may be known to some who are not the present Queen's friends. But I am getting ahead of myself; I apologize. A trifle too much adrenaline in to-night's madcap adventures."
Andrew straightens, one hand tucked behind his back, glass held at his side now as he comes to a more formal stance, if not quite to attention. His eyes rest on your face with a cool confidence and something of interest and life alike in his expression. "Her Majesty, Queen Anna, requested I investigate upon her behalf the activities of those who might be deemed enemies of her rulership. To this end, I have been in and about this kingdom since last our paths crossed, King Iowerth. It has been habitual for me to report to her sporadically, when I am able to without risking my covert operations, and especially when there is something worth reporting. In her absence... I would imagine that would fall to you. Inconvenient of me, I'm sure." The corner of his mouth twitches up again; he's amused. "If you insist, I'll go away again until she's returned, of course. But if you're finding life a bit dull, this might be sufficient to enliven things."
"Mistresses tucked in the furthest reaches of the keep," he mulls upon that, and this chamber, as he pours himself a cup of spiced wine. "The Kings of France used to build entire castles for theirs." He glances to you with faint amusement. "So we know either where they stood in his majesty's priorities or where he stood with his checkbook." He lifts the cup for a sip. "But one shouldn't poke fun at the dead. My apologies," he says quietly and generally.
Iowerth motions for you to have a seat, even as he does. No need to be formal. "You can brief me, Andrew. If we need her input now, I can inquire of her from here." He doesn't explain how. "So," he exhales cinnamon, his periwinkle eyes settling on you in the keenness of curiosity and business, "what entertainments are there?"
And by entertainments, he could easily have said treacheries there. In court politics sometimes there is very little difference.
"Oh, don't go thinking the mistresses were as isolated as all that." Andrew does not return to his seat immediately; he instead briskly goes to a lamp upon the wall and gives it a solid tug, causing a section of wood paneling to open up as a door, with a staircase beyond it. "It's fascinating how many hidden places this entire kingdom has; it's positively riddled with passageways and caverns. Small wonder that its secret name is Smugglers' Haven. There is a kingdom within a kingdom, here, and up until the king's death, things were fairly well in hand. Now, however..."
He swings the panel shut again and plants a chair solidly in front of it, settling into it with his wine. "There are multiple factions at work. There are two sets of his deceased majesty's relations in opposition to one another, and then there is Queen Anna's faction, as it were. The one faction is more or less willing to accept Anna's continued rule, or shall be, if they can be persuaded of the profit in it. These are the smugglers who use this kingdom as their base, as they have done since before it was in fact a kingdom. Anna's husband was one of a largeish clan of smugglers and privateers, you see, who have had a fairly thriving black market running through here for centuries."
He lets this sink in, watching your face. Your reputation for putting down piracy is well-known; how will you respond to this information? But then, smugglers are not necessarily pirates, and vice versa, and Andrew continues briskly but with a certain sort of British calm. "The difficulty is between the operational half and the ruling half of these. The operational half are by and large indifferent to who, precisely, controls things, provided that profits remain large and the work continues to run smoothly. They do have an unreasoned bias in favor of male leadership, which has been the primary glitch in the system for simply falling in under Anna's rule. The other half, however, are those who benefit by their trade runs and provide less in the way of manpower and more in the way of smoothing the path by dint of nobility, carefully applied, and the back-room deals performed over expensive wine and meals and with discreet discussions, bedroom games, and the occasional marriage and bribe of the sort of which a rough-and-tumble jack can't pull off. In short, the nobles who cling to their blue blood more than the work of their hands."
He sips the wine, lifting the glass with an ironical little tilt to you. "These feel that as Anna and her family have had no part in things prior to marrying her now departed husband, she should have no part in it going forward - and more, they see the possibility of scooping the pot. Her eldest son is a jackass, with no disrespect meant to that capable and useful animal; they can cheerfully puppet him until the cows come home, and run things under and around him without blinking an eyelash. What better way to turn this entire region into a full-fledged haven for thieves and worse? So you have on the one hand the less ambitious crooks, who realize they have a good thing going but aren't sure about turning against their historical lieges and relations, albeit by the wrong side of the blanket, in favor of a woman's rulership and scruples; and on the other hand, a truly cutthroat band with a puppet prince who believe - all of 'em, prince included - that they're entitled by blood and desire to the whole nut, shell and all. And, of course, you have Anna on the third hand, and those people who are not actually involved in smuggling." He spreads his hands apart and places one booted foot atop the other. "I leave your opinion of the third for you to declare, or not."
"From their standpoint, it would make sense. Why have a capable woman of moral fiber when you can have a prince who can be bought and sold twice, thrice over, who simply wants to sit on a pile of coins but largely not understand governance. If I were a smuggler, he'd be the king I'd want," he notes. "It's just good business."
Iowerth takes a swallow of the wine. He is quiet. There is no reaction, visible or otherwise, apart from what's already been stated. "The fear of change, the desire for status quo, is the laziness upon which all civilization depends," Iowerth says at last. "Insurrections are difficult, costly, generally bad for trade, and typically short lived. It never seems to work out, apart from a few notable, though occasionally questionable, examples. It sounds like Anna is rather out-numbered. Do you have a round percentage estimate of her odds?"
The words he uses are casual, even occasionally light-hearted, but his look is anything but. He is serious, this is grave, and he is concerned for her safety and that of her other sons.
"It depends on the approach taken, of course," Andrew answers easily. "The fact remains that a puppet must still be confirmed - and if their puppet of choice is not embraced by the High King, their plans are pretty much for naught. Your arrival has increased Anna's odds, not diminished them, you know. They know that she has your friendship, and from there, it's not a lengthy leap to assume that an insurrection against the sitting monarch, actually and actively recognized by the High Throne, might possibly not be warmly received. This is what's kept the two halves of that opposition from coming together. Those who risk their necks in the field are not inclined to court hemp about their less than lily-fair throats."
He sips wine again, sitting up straight and watching you. "Of course, on the other hand, the nobs are concerned as to your real purpose in being here. There is some concern that you and Anna might marry - and that would be very much not to their advantage at all. You are being kept a closer eye upon than even you may have thought. Don't be too surprised if and when they dangle young men and women in front of you. In fact," he grins, "in one of my other disguises, I had it floated to me that I might perhaps accept money in return for, ah, proving suitably distracting. Flattering, in a roundabout sort of way, and a first, I have to admit."
He sets the glass aside, smile vanishing in favor of briskness again. "Anna needs the support of the actual smugglers. If she can get that, the nobles can rant and rave, but the worst that will happen will be that her eldest son will fret and sulk and fume and drink a lot while his compatriots get progressively more and more tired of him. They'll always be grumbly at not getting their way, and they'll be a recurring potential danger to be watched, but that's inevitable. If she can get the smugglers' support, there's little the nobility can do to truly oust her. Their pockets are deep and they do have influence - but with the smugglers' money behind her instead of them, that will diminish, and she has influence of her own. She does need to name an official heir, though. The eldest boy's unlikely to return to the fold."
"I fully expected, and expect, that I'm under a pretty large microscope, with some, of course, looking for a hot ray of sun," he says that into his cup as he takes another swallow. "The best reaction one could hope to have had is neutrality in my being here. That was my best case scenario."
Nothing you say is shocking. However, the idea of there being a parade of young men and women to his chambers as a way of distracting him, and of you being propositioned (unsuccessfully) to that end, does get a look from him. Iowerth smirks a frown (frowns a smile) into his cup. "How much was going rate for my attention?" There need be no other commentary for you to know his opinion on that matter.
"Having succession settled would be a great help," Iowerth moves on. "She does need to commit to an heir. Her other sons show a great deal of promise and one has an acute business acumen. I agree that the smugglers are likely her best ally -- they have a stake in profitability ... and stability is largely required for that. She just has to keep the nobility well-fed. They will grumble, as you say, but would hate for their tables to be lacking. She may need to make some concessions she'd rather not -- things she may have to overlook -- but such is the political life."
Setting his cup aside, Iowerth folds his hands against his stomach. "Is there anything immediately developing here that requires her attention sooner rather than later. I can make a call to her."
"Five hundred for trying," Andrew answers you promptly but casually. "Five thousand if I should succeed. Gold, not silver. Of course, that was the offer made in thinking me a stable boy; I've reason to believe had I been flying under entitled colors it should have been ten times that. I did mention they've deep pockets, yes?"
He cuts you a look of amused irony, settling back again. "Nothing immediate, but that may be subject to change. I think that she should choose her heir before she returns, and be prepared to announce it upon her return. You don't need me here to tell her that, though." He rises to his feet, dusting himself off and shoving aside the chair. "I agree, more or less, with everything you've said. Is there anything I can do for you, as her representative or otherwise? I should take my leave soon, you see, before it's noticed that I, well, am missing." For some reason, he seems to find that funny as hell. His grin reaches his eyes, even if just for a moment. He pushes a hand back over his blond hair, leaving it rumpled, now; preparations.
"That is flattering," Iowerth notes quietly and just as casually. "And it's always handy to know the price of beef." He rises with that, setting his cup aside and then with a wave, all evidence of it is gone -- even the scent of cinnamon.
"I will convey the information. I'm sure she would say it and would wish me to say it in her absence: thank you, Andrew. It is good she has such an adept ally. I have nothing further at this time. Please let me know if there is anything thing else I should know or be aware of. Or if something should ...come up."
Like ambushes, death threats, assassinations, treachery. The usual political stew.
Iowerth bundles himself as you begin to make preparations, to change your appearance. Yes, she is lucky to have you as an ally. You would be too formidable an enemy.
Andrew grins at you, a lopsided, nervy, ironic smile, and he winks. His jacket's removed, the lining pulled out, waved once, twice - the color darkens, and he pulls it on again, a peaked cap pulled with the brim low over his eyes, chin jutting out at an angle.
"Cheerio, madge," the Cockney accent is almost impeccable, bespeaking a London before the Blitz. "Too right, yeh? It'll orl come out in the warsh." He laughs shrilly, the image of a stableman, and the secret door's yanked open again. It closes, but you can distantly hear a whistling of Flowers In the Park. At least he's on your side.
Posted by rowan at November 06, 2010 10:20 PM
