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Post by King Adam Aberdeen I on Aug 5, 2009 9:42:50 GMT -6
Isabella and Roger -.-.-.-
As the pair of Skye's royal lover's prepared to consummate anew, another set watched the heat rise in waves, three miles from the shore. They stood apart, Isabella and Mortimer so separate and distinct that the air between them divulged on different patterns of breath. When one looked toward the other, revulsion turned them away. A bitter fight cooled their love-affair. There was no England to return to for Mortimer. No France, for Isabella. There were children's futures to ensure with an agenda to advance. Mortimer would neither be King and it looked less likely as if there would be anything to be Steward of. What made a harlot much better than her sodomite husband?
"We are nearly there, Lady She-Wolf"
"Do not call me such," she chimed demure. He swore he heard a snarl under her French accent. "I do not have the same reputation here as I do in Europe. It seems as if this is another world. Maybe, gentle Mortimer, I need another world."
"What you need the world has naught, Isabella." Mortimer smirked as his retort. “Yet this world of Skye, the Gaelic Nations, as they call it, may have some benefit… This woman Aberdeen, they say she is but a fine woman of stature. They speak of the husband’s absences often. Maybe this would play well for both of us.” Roger smirked yet again and bowed slightly to his companion. “And yes, even maybe the Mo’r Triath could fall under the Lady She-Wolf’s charm. If you are game MiLady…?”
Roger watched the scene unfold in the distance, then looked to Isabella. “We use to be as such… but the waning of power seems to have waned our fires as well…”
“How can a fire burn for you when there is nothing for my children? The world is changed. Is this what God intends?" She scoffed, glaring off at the horizon that came close enough to touch. The daughter of the King of France. A Plantaganet bride. This was her lot? In spite of herself, she found her hand graze against Roger's to see if it could afford her some comfort. The shape of it had not changed, nor had the length of the fingers looked any less appearing on the edge of a ship than they did in her hand.
Roger smirked, with a hmmpppfft accompanying it… “My dearest Isabella… Nay once but many times, I have told you, you must first make sure oneself is taken care of before others, including children, are taken care of… and when that goal had been reached, then others can then be taken care of…” he paused and glared at her. “Even God wants us to do what we can before we ask of him… T’was it nay so, that you sought me out when your sodomite husband was not fulfilling what you needed. Was it nay I that came and assisted in your goal? Was it not I who set your bed afire with passion you so desperately required? Was it not I who had an army ready to overthrow the Plantaganet wus, to seat you upon the throw you rightfully deserved?... until the Mo’r Triath beat me to it.” Gentle Mortimer was not being so gentle now; ringing his own chimes, as if he needed to.
Why had the fire cooled? Matriach's duties were poor excuses. The truth of it was her mind was merely too clouded to think on him now. No, she had not forgotten him, nor forgotten how. She merely considered the fact of the matter being that he may use this hand to take the reins of the Mo'r Oukselo's mind. A woman of stature, but a heathen. On that precept alone caution was exercised. "Gentle Mortimer," she uttered, perhaps affording him the first affection she had in weeks. "Do not forget me, here among the Griffin."
Roger just laughed at her behest. “Do not forget me when you sit rightfully upon the throne that the Mo’r Triath shall give you… roust me from the bed of the Mo’r Okesula lest she use me too…” he was smirking at her now. But before she could utter another word, he took her hand and turned for the steps of the ship’s deck. “Come MiLady… Treat em as you will the Aberdeen… Let me test your expertise once more… so I may know what rumors to spread about the Gryphon…”
"A throne given? It would have to be one would negotiate for a birthright, no. A divine right sanctioned by God as the Church teaches us" Her hand in his was a right thing. God forgave adultery in the light of her husband's 'malady', didn't he?
She pondered that at times, laying by his side. A King was ordained by God before he was sanctioned unto the men of his country. He married a vessel to give him children and be pious, virtuous, and exemplified. Isabelle was no fool. She knew of her expected place beside a King, but found her voice when he found favorites among the men! Her contract did not force her to turn a blind eye to Sodomy, one of the deadliest sins!
"I believe I can sit long and do business among the providence of men." A coup was close to execution, were it not for Edward's zeal for stupid, treasury breaking battle. Why were the English so crazed for land? The French could be deemed no better, but they indulged enough passions to be equally distracted. That thought made her smile.
She was still the wife of Edward, estranged albeit. He was no longer the King but she was a Lady of France. His position as a man couldn't illegitimatize their children nor cast her coldly away. "Well, gentle Mortimer, they may have evaded Edward's Marshall to the Scottish matters, and won a war, but we will see what can be done of traditionalism in the home..." As the ship hand approached, he was met with a tolerant, stressed-courtesy that made him shiver in its frost.
Roger could only smirk and whisper… “We should have stayed in France and fought the Salic Law in the courts… if we knew that the Mo’r Triath would win his damned war… even he would have backed our claim.” He paused. “But I think that tis nay too late either…” he smirked as he guided her into the cabin…
As she entered, he pushed her upon the bed… and climbed onto the single bunk of the ship’s captain quarters next to her. “My dearest Isabella… the Mo’r Triath does not trust the French King… they argued over the conflict of Flanders and the weaknesses of the Auld Alliance… He feels that women should be equal among men… does that not weaken the Salic Laws’ reasoning?” he paused and stroked her face. “The Lady She-wolf could show him her mercy…” smirking… “…lure him into her bed… and I into your Queenship…” he offered her a wicked smile.
"Oh? You are plotting, then, Gentle Mortimer. They would have advised my husband against your innocence, and I would be loathed to believe them. But, all men do such things. It is what makes the chosen King and the others lesser than."
By right of God and fortitude. Instead of to wait for the gang plank, he pulled her back inside of the cabin. Therein, he lay beside her, speaking of the Auld Alliance faults, Salic Laws, and reason. "A woman's place by position and rank is to secure the entire family by providing of herself and her womb to the creation of heir in sons and alliances and ties to other family, by daughter. Still, by his law alone it would allow one such as myself, ranked of royal French blood, England's queen by marriage, to rule of my own accord, establish myself, and successes for my children. It is on that principle I shall speak to him. Of truth and use. Securing futures for the line of Plantagnet. I do not know if I will put the Mo'r Triath into my bed to this end, but it would be no sense to discredit the premise. Salic Law gives precedence to your sex, gentle Mortimer.."
"Should you nay seek that avenue with the Mo'r Triath, what sayeth I lure the Gaelic wench into mine... to discredit her with lies of passion and lust...?" Mortimer was grinding the thoughts thru his mind. "And just what precedence doth yer own sex gain...?" he smirked... his hand caressing her beautiful face.
"My wit and thighs give rise to my own."
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Post by King Adam Aberdeen I on Oct 29, 2009 15:01:05 GMT -6
The ship carrying the distinguished visitors, though unexpected, docked with the usual protocol afforded a visiting vessel. An ornate carriage, with the Griffin seal upon the doors, met the entourage at the gangplank. Armed guards in dress uniforms and gleaming armour surrounded the carriage.
Roger and Isabella stepped graciously from the gangplank to the carriage, while the Captain of the Gold Talons bowed as they passed.
Back at the Griffin Castle, Adam’s viewing of the day’s court requests was interrupted by a messenger… In his ear, the messenger spoke softly. “MiLord, the guests have docked…” Nodding Adam stood, ending the day’s hearings, extended his hand to his beloved wife… then the royal pair moved thru the back door of the small stage.Inside the carriage, Roger peered thru the curtains of the carriage windows at the city beyond the docks. In the horizon were the blue pointed roofs of the Blue Castle. Looking back to Isabella, he smiled, settling back into the seat. “Turas Lan is huge, my love… No reports ever told of its immenseness…”Adam and Bess retired to their bedchambers… Adam selected his best black and gold robes… those of the Mo’r Triath… Strapping an ornate sword to his waist. “Bessie Eve… Ah shall meet wit Lord Mortimer within the hour… We shall discuss their agenda whilst ‘ere in Turas Lan…” patting the buckle he glanced at Bess. “Jus’ sae yae know… Ah trust ‘em nay… No good shall coom fr’m the She-Wolf and her bedbug…” Adam huffed as he opened the door of the large room.Within the hour, in the Great Hall of Blue Castle, the two men would meet, exchange the mandatory etiquette of royalty, and retire to a small room of seclusion. “Lord Aberdeen… it is of greatest pleasure to finally meet the Great Mo’r Triath…” giving a deep bow at the waist.“Lord Mortimer… I have heard so much about you… your reputation precedes you…” Adam responded in perfect English, his brogue left behind at the door. “Tis finally grand to meet you face to face at last.” Adam stood inches above the man and appeared far much younger, but made no case of either.Hands clasp in meeting, neither delivering a crushing grasp nor dainty clutch; each man summarizing the other in mind. “MiLord, I wanted to sit and discuss our reason for coming to Turas Lan, but maybe tis best to involve the ladies as well. Though I am more than empowered to speak for Lady Isabella…” he offered a smile. “But we may discuss the schedule of our visit… both personal and business." Again he offered a smile.Adam distrusted the man… and even more so his smile. Adam held Mortimer as synonymous with betrayal… But he would not alienate the followers of the pair too soon, by speaking his mind, or shunning his arrival by any less protocol than given a King of sorts.The ship carrying the distinguished visitors was good at showing what a bombastic showcase the entire affair really was. The only royalty about that vessel was an adulterous wife with a husband who had a penchant for raising her ire by chasing stable boys, and a man whom surely sought to find power for himself on Isabella's arm. Foolishness casts its lot into all classes, shapes, and sizes. None was worse than fools who took equal turns at moments of intelligence, and bouts of deceit.
They were a complicated pair, in how they shared a bed or what they did what the time after. History wouldn't understand anymore about Roger and Isabella than what it wanted. Bare basic facts, the essentials if you will. Often, even the best Historian leaves something out when the accounts don't border toward any sort of real personality. The Aberdeens fortunately employed a history to be unbiased, for Beathag kept two accounts on behalf of her husband's reign.
One factual as she could manage, the other heavily personal.
"I wonder what good or ill will come o' these meetings. I don't know what future Isabella hopes to secure for 'er son on my island. I suppose t’would be hard bein' the Queen o' a land only tae lose it, and yer children their standin'. Still, her and Mortimer strike me as odd in such a sense tha' it makes one more uncomfortable than leery. They aren't a threat in the nominal way. Still, it doesn't mean they aren't here to try… something." -- Beathag's personal history, separate of the history of the Lord's state. Isabella had chosen to set foot in Turas Lan in a dress made out of Jerusalem silk. It was long and form fitting, with the sleeves lined in a heavier brocade. Beneath it was a kirtle of the same, while her hair was pulled up into two braided buns on the sides of her ears, held in place with the mesh of the times. She'd heard that Turas Lan was a place of blossoming newness: politics, philosophy, architecture, invention, and fashion. While Roger studied the immense sprawl of the city, she watched the people through the curtains. Such an array of shape! Some favored the simple pieces of clothing, plain or noble, what separated them was colors. Others had shorter sleeves. Or there! The lacings at waist or in front plucked up the figure. Some skirts were far fuller while others were narrow. It made her wish to study drawings of the clothes on the women to better understand the women in them. She expected the Gaelic tongues to be heard, the Nordics, but the frequency of French made her tug on Mortimer's hand to look on her side of the carriage. "What French influence has the Island had?" she asked him, suddenly very curious for history lesson. "That is French like I heard when I was a girl… Mon Dieu." She came alive suddenly, scooting over to the opposite window. With great hesitation she'd allow Mortimer as her voice now - suddenly - wanting to speak for herself as she had in England during the time of the coup. She didn't expect to find sense in Scot madness.When the messenger came to tell Adam of the arrival of the guests, Beathag already knew what was being mentioned. What was hanging over their heads and flung off into the distance had come back around again. So it would be that they would entertain Lady Isabella of England and Roger Mortimer, with the particular of her being in charge of the Lady. In the chambers where Adam elected his robes, Beathag reached out to touch them. "It's been awhile since Ah've watched ye put this on," she said wistful, with a hint of awe for the power the threads held, and a bit of apprehension for the significant ability the black and golds had for taking him away from her. "Ah dun trust them either, but wot e'er they will say we'll counter it with a good natured n' firm nay. We won't let them sojourn long." It was then she wondered over what in her own wardrobes to put on. The matching counter to his colors, or the dress that incorporated the shades of the Griffin with that of the Lady in White?
In the end, she elected the dress that seemed to marry one countenance to another. Whilst the dress was based on pale brocade of white silk, there were thin gold and black ribbons that held it shut across the sides, that held the long, ornate sleeves in place. The seamstress was clever to incorporate a dark, sheer lace over the white dress. The Griffin emblem would be in the jeweled pin holding the twisted braid around the crown of her head, and in the silver pendant at her throat that never came away, though a gold torque twisted proud and fine, a symbol of Celtic heritage. They dressed well for visitors who wouldn't sojourn long.Isabella, former Queen of England met Beathag, Mo'r Oukselo in what was properly dubbed the Regent's Apartments of the Blue Castle. Between the two of them, Isabella was Queen by marriage, royal by blood. She had given birth to royal children. Beathag, Mo'r Oukselo, was in an elevated position of servitude, or so Isabella told herself. The line had lived as trades people between boats and iron, making music minimal for well over half a century now as the chain of island influence had begun to go into flux. No, it didn't matter that their ilk had been favored for advice in England, because it was a pet position. The music was pretty, their faces were pretty.
The She-Wolf looked at Lady Griffin, appraising first the stance. Anywhere else save the frigid Northern climes, how would have been unable to marry. Still, she would have been looked at. Her face was not too round or too narrow. Her eyes, well set and very bright. Her hair was not merely yellow, but indeed quite golden with nary a speck of brown in sight to ruin the flaxen perfection pulled up to reveal a high neck, good shoulders. She had hands with long fingers favored for music. "No," she thought, "The Mo'r Oukselo is more than pretty. Given the age by number, it records not on her face. Still, she has been sorely used." Even though they were scrubbed down and softened, there were neither gloves on her hands or a high neckline. Even under the jewelry or behind the long sleeve, exposed skin showed any number of scars. Beathag sat in unexpressed discomfort as they made first introduction. All there was to do in their polite silence was to appraise a face. Isabella's was not without its charm, that was for certain. Flat, dark stones of black-blue for eyes, a thick head of good hair and the sort of skin that belonged in the same circumstance as the rest of Europe's fabled, mythical elite. Times had been hard and life unfair, but at least God smoothed the future with a beauty that wasn't unwavering. It took more than power to attract men, the good Scott thought. At least more than power to make them stay, and the same was true of beauty. To keep Mortimer occupied, it would have to be a combination of both things that could overthrow the other at certain times. They weren't that far apart in age either, no less than five, probably no greater than three years apart. "A pity she had a man lover fer a husband," she thought, "May'aps if he'd get 'er content, we would nay be about tae 'ave these talks."Finally, Isabella spoke first:
"Your capital is very large, your grace. We were not aware of the size of Turas Lan, having only known of the city within the last year or so. It looks to have grown over a great many years. Is it an older establishment?"Beathag continued, and so it went:
"Aye, it's come intae reckonin' within the last eleven years or sae under good patronage, but it has its foundings durin' the last installment o' Lairds, Adam's grandfather's Da.""I see. What of the rest of Scotland now after the last few years of war?""Recovered. Edinburgh was nay o'erly harmed, Aberdeen the royal burgh is put taegether, n' St. Andrews thrives well as port. The other isles n' villages are also o' a good way. Have ye e'er seen much o' Scotland?""Not until good Sir Mortimer insisted we make a good tour of the northern country after our leave of England, as to better understand it. Will you tour me about the capital if it pleases you?""Aye.""I should like my son to come see such a splendid place, so that he might continue to garner a ruler's education. He may well still marry and go on, by the grace of God."From contemplative observer's silence to the glimmer of the proverbial brass tacks. Beathag would inhale the air for the comforting scent of salt from the sea surrounding Skye. To Isabella, it was just air, which she seemed to abstain from with a rigid practice to appear demure, still. "Ah'm sure he shall find a good bride, mayhaps he may dae sae o' his own accord.""I had thought to secure futures for my children in a world that was new. Still, it would require the custom of arrangement. Would not your daughter benefit well with a match that would then secure your hold to the future of my son's throne, through your daughter?"
And if she raised him in custom's bent, then Davina would be a tool in a hopeful lad's box. Every child born of her womb was a child who stood to be the heir of a piece of the Isles, and perhaps the nations if not the leader overall in the event of life's unexpected turns. She was kind, though. Listening on further. Once, when people had ventured to arrange marriages for their sons to the then living Princess Edme, she'd been less than kind. "Your daughter would then become established herself..." "M'daughter is well 'pon her own, just beginnin' tae be weaned from m'teet, thank ye." The want to pull back her hand had diminished to nothing since the light of Davina had poured down from heaven one morning many months ago. In fact, Beathag now earned a reputation of being good humored, stately, and clever where she'd been sharp tongued, zealous, and angry. That still didn't mean her tongue couldn't barb, however. It only did so in the same fashion she listened. "Ah abhor arrangements made sae early, n' will make nay such thing without the counsel o' both a woman o' fittin' age and m'laird husband. Since m'daughter is far from fittin' age, nay arrangements would be true tae form anyhow, fer she'd have tae agree tae them again, when she came o' age. Ah wrote ye n' told ye m'lady, m'daughter is nay fer it."Isabella had to swallow hard to hide how offended she was by the direct, uncouth remarks, if not admire in the same stroke how protective she was of her children's interests. Still, it was too radical for her to understand. What chance would her daughter have in the civilized world without these decisions in place for her now? "Have you not heard of the Salic Laws, as put forward by King Charlemagne, and enacted upon in places the very place of women? Surely your opposition can not be so vehement as to deny your own subservience for your husband, trust of his judgments, doing things that women cannot and by nature do not engage in? A woman's place is keeper of what makes men far less savage, and it is our place to be beneath them. We were born in inequity, Eve's curse, madame." She offered up reason where Beathag offered a rebuttal while pouring them tea. "Ah've heard o' n' read, n' seen in practice, but as women are keepers o' the home then do they nay rise tae wot is called o' them? Ye yerself have governed fer yer husband when he is unable, listened tae counsel he had nay cared for, n' sought tae unburden Aingland o' his influence of negligence, then stubbornness, war, n' sin? Beg yer pardon, good lady, but Ah think if ye were beneath him ye could nay dae such things, nor dae ye think it. M'husbands hearth is nay cold, his household is nay immoral, his children are nay lackin' n' his wife is neither less than him nor Christian. Let us say tha' now, Ah dun want it tae shock ye later. Ah would do wot is necessary, n' m'husband does nay rule by himself nor does he influence our lairds n' parliament by himself. We dae sae jointly. Ah abstain from many things these days by choice, nay because o' a godly demand nor his decree tae dae sae. Ah dae nay object tae a man's protection o' a woman, his lands, or his place tae dae sae, but without a man we must live when they beh at war? Sae then, yer Salic Law does nay allow fer a woman tae inherit, or tae have say, n' if the men should fall away without elect o' another, what then?""there is always a draw from the counsel of family and lords, through such bonds as arranged marriages, the sisters of other brothers, their children..etc.""n' if tha' line fails?""….....................…." She had no answer then, and remained mute as Beathag concluded:
"We may be unpopular with some o' our allies, but we still have them, sae tis m'belief they will truck with a woman fer Davina will assist her brother in some way when she is o' age n' place tae dae sae. She is given e'ery chance and right n' responsibility as a man. Ah won't deny her wot is given freely by law n' tae all people tae impress o'er countries. Tae put it bluntly, m'lady, Ah have told a great many m'children are nay fer sale."Schedules? Reviews? Is that all Lord Mortimer and the Lady She-Wolf traveled so far for???… Adam did not think so…
Adam so distrusted many, if not all, of England’s elite… save one Claramae St Laurence… And so it was with the French elitists… Those who promised, yet failed, to aid Scotland under the Auld Alliance… A farce of politics if there ever was one… Adam gritted his teeth as his mind wandered along this line of thought. Though his sea-green eyes would not betray him, and show his discontent. He was the Mo’r Triath of the now unified Gaelic Nations… elating in his own thought that England is now a duchy of the said Nations… nay longer a powerhouse, but a subservient of the Nations… Adam was now a powerful man in his own rites… though he thought himself a knight only in deeds… and this Lord Mortimer was a finagling worm willing to warm any bed to get what he desired.
“Aye, I can arrange a schedule of events for you and Lady Isabella, but I think it would be more beneficial just to be spontaneous than scheduled… you would gain more of a true flavor of Skye…” Adam canted his head in observance of the man.“If you deem it so Mo’r Triath…” Mortimer responded playing up to Adam’s title.“I do hereby decree it…” Adam smirked… No he was not playing down to the Englishman, nor was he being condescending… he just stayed the course that Mortimer laid out.
Then Adam sat back into the chair as he indicated Mortimer to do as well. “Lord Mortimer… With your interests in Scotland and in England’s throes for power, did you ever have dealings with Lord Maubrey, the Lord Advisor to the King?” The trap had been set… now would he take the bait…?"…....................…" "They come n' gae, n' come n' gae," she spoke of the She-Wolf and her consort's frequent trips across the sea. "Can they nay decide wot be best n' simply find a place on the damn continent tae settle." She hissed. A serpent's gesture indeed, it carried the promise of a bite for the fools stupid enough to tread with exposed heels. For now, the tables of diplomacy were left quiet in blue castle. One could blame the season. Still and silent, dust crept on it now. Shuttered windows dwarfed already minimal specs of light in the great rooms of the castle under the blue stone roof. Sitting on the edge of the window ledge, the curvature of her hip captured the scythe shape of the moon. One long stroke after the other of her hair brush through golden strands produced a calming effect.Adam sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Bess… “Ah trust nay wot Mortimer daes… nor says Luv… and Ah bae tired of the She-Wolf’s vain attempts at gainin’ mae favor… If’n a man amind’s tae, Ah could’ve bed her every nite…” he huffed. He did not appreciate the attempts to get him between her legs. It was not flattering upon the least… and Adam was irked at the woman’s actions. “She bae nae ev’n coy ‘about it lass…”
“Ah dun showed Mortimer and the wench everything in the city, and still he wishes to corner me so the ‘Lady’ can put moves upon mae…” His frustration now vented at his beloved wife, most emphasis upon lady… “Can’t yae just say sumthin’ tae her…” he gets up and walks to her, his arms wrapping about her waist. “Mortimer never did answer mae question about Maubrey… somehow, Ah feel they bae connected…” then he kissed his wife’s neck as she brushed her hair, baring the pale skin."................…." Mortimer walked about the room assigned them by the Mo’r Triath… “Isabella? Has the Mo’r Triath showed any interest?” he takes her arm and turns the woman around. “Maybe not, but I’ve got interests…” his hand went to between her bare legs as she undressed. He and Lady Isabella had not had sex since their arrival in Turas Lan, and he blamed her interests in the Duke; only to be denied as stress. In public, the relationship was imitated as platonic, but in private, the two once indulged in the physical labors, almost to the point of obscenity… Now, it was void of any… “We came here on a mission… Have yu abandoned it? He will not bed yu, so why take it out on me?” the man growled as the woman pulled away from him."….............." "Sae, she's as much a harlot as they be proportin'. Suppose her n' the last King deserved one another… though she need keep her pox ridden self away from m'husband," indignant rage seemed to matriculate through the deep, graveled alto she spoke in. When it reached the top, she continued, "Nor dah Ah trust either, husband. If they can make no match with us, nor Scotland… fer Ah've heard their lot does nay gae well on the mainlaid either, and the bids among any lesser clan are still small, at best. Havin' a french royal tie is lessened when ye've got an evident whore presentin' it." She began to pace the room. Indeed, the floor should have been worn by the journey of the royal feet since the first day Beathag had ever called the castle home. It was home! Every stone had been purchased with a pound of flesh and thrice the pints of blood that it ever took to construct.
They had little coffers to wage war with, yes? France wouldn't be so open to spill their accounts at Isabella's beseeching. After all, her marriage was over because she had neither been pretty nor kind enough. Inviting nor sweet enough, or whatever such folly invited her husband up the rear passage of a man. Wherever the fault in it lay, let the bishops of a foreign church decide it for her. Still her actions would rile the French enough to ask what Scotland did to quell her. Mortimer, too, was becoming too powerful a man from sucking on the whore's breast milk. "Ye should see the Lord Mortimer's eyes when fer an instant he pays me mind. Carrion crows have a better disposistion." No, he didn't want to kill her, but to possess? The bed chamber of the old Queen and he had gone to winter long before the time had come.Adam strolled around the room in frustration… “If’n Ah had mae druthers, Ah’d put ‘em in chains and send ‘em back tae France…” Why could Europe, specically France and now the subdued England continually be a sore on his political backside? “Next thing yae knaew, they’s bae sending French soldiers tae Griffin lands… wot Ah gotta dae, destroy them tae?” Adam did not want war… he had his fill… but he also knew to keep Skye, and the Gaelic Nations, safe, he may have to take up the sword again…
“Mortimer is nay less than the Plantagenets… and that She Wolf is anyone’s whore, just to secure her own desires…” He even hated to speak their names… Opening the bottle of Irish whiskey on the table, he poured one for himself, then drank it, as if to wash his mouth of the vile names.
He looks to Bess… “Ah tell yae lass… if’n Mortimer tries his hands ‘pon yae, Ah’ll have em cut off… and send them and his wench back to France…” "…." Beathag was not much older than Isabella, and it seemed with the woman gone cold in both political and chamber aspects, Beathag was better company:
"They speak of you on the continent, in France, Spain, even as far north as the land of Danes."
"N' wot dae they say?"
"They speak of your presence, which women should not have, and power, which few women command. They can not agree if this is good or bad, but they have agreeance on one matter. Your apperarence"
"Wot, o' thick voiced giantess?"
"On the contrary, Mo'r Oukselo, they say you look a ten year younger than your true age, your height lends itself to your unusual station well, and that your oddity seems to stir in men a great yearning."
She'd paused in the square, ceasing the processional. What care had Europe for the outspoken that they took enough time to have a conversation on that subject? It was to be expected. Somewhere was an exchange of paper with painted picture of a potential match far more flattering, or not flattering enough to an original that decided the lineages of every house. Somewhere, there was talk of a face of an elder, a great beauty, or a long chin. Had they come so far enough that the name 'Beathag' swam around the sea of supposistion? "I'll pay ye mind tae remember some o' m'ladies are impressionable and gentle taeday." One did not discuss 'yearnings' with married women, let alone what other men thought was attractive. One did not discuss this when one galavanted with one whom was married. Even the outspoken have their own piece of etiquette to use as a mooring stone.
Roger nodded his head, apologizing for any offense though as the High Lady turned, he allowed his hand down long enough to catch a touch of her hair. As the river passed through the tips of his fingers, he captured a strand to inhale.
It had been the young Mistress Heather who had told her Lady of the offense she didn't notice, and how it seemed he kept the hair somewhere on his person. Now, she relayed this to Adam, and as he wrapped himself about her she wondered if in the faintest second one thing could ruin perfection. They had quarrels, true, and times where they did not speak. Still, it was said they were one of few households were no royal mistresses were secreted in. "Then we need tae banish them from Turas Lan, n' if claimin' offense tae their actions is it, we must dae it. We can nay give Maubrey a link. He has enough o' those." People tried to reach their hand inside the sanctum to break it apart. "N'… Ahdam. Were it such a temptation...would ye e'er?" The embrace… a soft kiss… Strength ! That is what he received from his loving wife. With her embraces, he could live… to conquer nations… Quarrels? Disagreements? Them? Oh yes, they did… just as every married couple did… but usually the heated discussions would work themselves out by moments fo silence, teasing, or sexual romps in the bed. His eyes traced her face, and his eyes narrowed when she mentioned Maubrey’s name, providing her a simple nod in agreement.
Now a look of surprise came upon his face. “Temptation is every man’s downfall… As the Gods see us, we are a nation… and a nation such as ours ca nay be defeated, save from the inside. Why would Ah damage the inner sanctum? Ah got no desire tae dae sae… Rest yaer mind lass… Ah got no hankerin’ tae fulfill such a temptation…” he smiled at her.
Temptation has tried to lure Adam down the forbidden path of self-destruction. In the case of Beathag’s “death” he sought Liliana… in England, Claramae amazed him… both very possible lures for him… Beauty, strength, and charisma in them both… but his love for Bess was stronger than any mere temptation…. Unless she was the temptation.Which could be very arguable, if one distracted the other from what was supposed to be done or if they held one another together. Either way, they were irrevokably tethered. If one drifted then so would the other. If one left, so would the other. The most omnious outcomes could be multiplied so it would be best not to speak of it.
"Some inner sanctums remain intact e'en if a mistress takes prominence in the Lord's bed, Ahdam. Ah'm fortune the ways o' Europe are not the ways o' our halls, n' more sae nay our way. Did ye e'er wish one?" Why the questions? It was not asked out of accusation, but of mere curiosity. Did she really fufill him? Doubt was seeded only ever so slightly, but it was enough. It was time for the She-Wolf and her companion to leave, to worry them another day of which they certain would.“Tis nay wot we wished eh lass? Did we not start down the path not to be the same as all o’Europe? You and Ah saw that Europe was distressed by religious turmoil, and pains of Kings wrought upon the commoner… an’ did we say nay us?” he smiles… “Holds truth even in lusts of yer husband… Ah bae a man whose ‘appy wit wot ‘e ‘as… Be it known, none has slept in yer place nor warmed my bed even for a moment…” he winks at her… “If’n Ah been a single man, there bae a few Ah could yearn faer…” he nudged her teasingly. “Baet, Ah bae ‘appy… and sated wit the Norseman’s daughter… as firy a blood as any man…” then he leaned back and looked at her… “An’ yae? Did yae e’r want another? Have Ah ever left yae wantin’ more?”....................... "Why would you seek me in your bed when you are so quick to put the Mo'r Triath in your place, or is it the Mo'r Oukselo you wish to cast next to you?" Isabelle arched a brow at Mortimer, pushing his hand away from hers as she was restrained beneath him. It mattered now how hot his kisses or how enflamed the flesh. It was a physical reaction that could be tempered down with mental concentration. Was not her body, too, restrained? Restraining the mind then would be fitting.“I want what is best for you my dearest SheWolf…” he teased. “I have always wanted what is best for you… and me…” he offered a grin… “Does not the reign of all the Gaelic Nations appeal to you…” He moved toward her, his intent on having her again and again before the sun set. “Do not chill my bed woman…” as he takes her arms, threatening her toward the bed. “I want you… all of you… and the lands that come with it…”
Just before Mortimer was about to push her back upon the bed, there was a loud knock upon the door… and a second later, the door burst open… before them were the castle guards… Mortimer released her arms and the SheWolf fell upon the bed. The guards moved forth and as Captain spoke… “By order of the Mo’r Triath… Lord Mortimer… Lady Isabella… you have been remanded to depart Skye in the interests of security… The ship now awaits yer departure… I am to escort you from the Blue Castle to the ship… the ship captain is not to stop, nor make port until you reach the shores of France. Shall you deem necessary not to comply, we are ordered to physically restrain you and force you from the realm. Do you comply?” The man’s voice was an imitation of his leader’s in tone and fluctuation. Little did anyone, save the Mo’r Triath himself, know that he had planned to deport the renown pair. He had enough of their schemes and trickery. Before professing his fidelity to his beloved wife, the Mo’r Okesula, Adam ordered the Castle guards to escort them to a ship and get them back to France.
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