Return to the Dance {Closed, Semi-Open Soon}

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

In a winter for once holding little evidence of discontent, the Master stood by the window pondering the designs of malice. They were there; not too unlike the fragile snow flakes that pressed against the pane of glass, too nondescript to heed at a distance yet when the chance to observe the form was given, there was no mistaking that the plain was individually planned, labored over, and waited for its chance at execution. Many of them fell on to the floor beyond the doubled doors, opening now, to allow the messenger in with a message done in a careful hand. An Argyll seal was broken. Elegant penmanship scripted out an invitation in calligraphy to feast on the grounds of Eliean Donan from the Chieftain of the Argyll. Soon to be an Earl, or so the assignments in Parliament were suggesting. The officiating of the long-overdue peerage according to the King's unusual, if not pragmatic, pleasure. It could very well be done, if she were a Duchess atop only twelve acres of reward. She also retained the ancestral estate associated with the St. Laurence English barony, a dedicated establishment in Ireland in the O'Cathasaigh holdings the Earl and Countess Leinster left from the original lands in the green country of her mother's birth. Indeed, it could all be done. "He will be very pleased. While each of the Griffin children shall hold title and land in the region, it will no doubt be kept as steward by those now titled beneath them. It is quite clever. A spread governance. The Argyll seem of a stable hand for such. You must tell his grace that the papers containing his official writ of station shall come to him before this gathering commences, and that I shall attend him. We are honored to have been included." When the will of the King was as good as law in a Parliament that yielded to him as a willow in the wind, why emerge? No one need ever see her now to feel the reach of her hand. Indeed, it had been her own that wrote the very writ with the King's good tidings bestowed to a Clan still seeing its fortune's rise. There would be other means to measure but for the time being it would do to remain focus. With the ascent given, the messenger returned at once to tell his Lord that the Duchess of Northampton would attend to him at his humble request. "The Earl will be so pleased, and his household as well. They will consider it a great honor," the messenger said to the servant as they passed. When he was outside with the men of Argyll he would jest that any house would find it an honor to be visited by the Second Queen. Little did he know that from her place in the window, the little gestures his lips made transported words to her keen as if heard on the ear. She shook her head gently, but found it very amusing. Ah. Perhaps someone had told them that the King's Mistress could grant great favor. She sat in Parliament, governed from her estates, and was now coming from them. Surely with a few words and a touch of her rose-water skin, the King would succumb. She laughed at this. Oh yes, she had a great many men at her disposal. That could be attested to by the number of men in the service of Her Grace, let alone the risen number of those she considered within the sacred circle.

It was only the Duke she would ever take to her bed, though. The rest succumbed to her whim in an entirely different, far less pleasurable way. Madame de la Morte still gave the order that wrought blood in the mists, if only one knew where to look.


What drew the Duchess from her Paxton designed estate of Northampton would, with time, become a part of the many tales that swirled around her presence only to become a hushed whisper on the hem of her gown. The plainer texts was that in the region of Waternish, on the isle of Donan, was a member of Clan Argyll who had long ago captured her attention. He had been cultivated like a fine seed who's time had now come to harvest. He was needed now for a matter of significance. To the floors of the hallowed old castle would also come another remnant of the past that would not stay away.

The Order of the Ruby Asp had become to move again. The house had not always been on the better terms with the English Order of the Rose, so now it was not with the Ebony Order, yet it was tolerated for the presence on the continent could often prove useful. But in recent times the movements were out of character for them. Of notice was a particular English ambassador who did not come back from his assignment in Naples. There was another, a journeyman who went about as merely a traveling man of fortune, who did not return from Venice. When the reason why their voyages were cut short on land and in life came to her attention, it was with the realization that someone within the Order wished to suffer neither truce nor good will. In effect, they were culling the herd to make a point. In retaliation, The Talon, by way of the Rose, had been instructed to relieve the Asp of their choice for a Bishopric within one of the island countries of these waters. That was a bolder statement. Where once she would have engaged in such matters directly, she now entrusted them to capable hands. She read about them, and offered advice or order soundly followed.

Through these orders given in private council when she deemed to venture out or when others came to her, a peace was kept. But now with the Asp moving as it did, it meant someone was controlling the fangs of the snake. There had been whispers on the wind, and the emergence of one particular ambassador from the Netherlands confirmed her suspicion that a few of the Asp were under the persuasion of The Alderman and his associates. Otherwise, the Houses had no reason for petty wars between one another to enact a show of force. It was also suffice to say that whatever lay between houses, they would never attack a Grandmaster. The Grandmaster of Vittergaust's own choosing. Secretly, she wondered if Sorschal had not been picked off in his wordly wanderings. This thought disturbed her.

How did it all relate to the Argyll?

It became of note that some of the feast attendees would be important persons, and one of these important persons would be connected to a dignitary or two for the sake of seeing the politics of the land unfold. Of these connections, it was certain that they were moving to kill her Argyll elected. Furthermore, it was also expected that they would not expect her to be among them. Or to make plans. Or to do them. The woman had wit, but by now what lamed her in Winter was a war story retold across courts these last pair of years. It would explain why there was so much movement in winter, for thinking the household's heads all the weaker.

"Young Master Voltaire?" she turned from the window to find Claudio already awaiting her instruction,"Seek out Monroe for me if you would, I will have a need of him. Also tell your father I wish the weapons master to lay out my choice items. They will have a need soon. See them cleaned, sharpened, and oiled. Tell your Lord-Father I have a need to see him as well. We need to make arrangements to house our fellows returned from the continent." He bowed, offering a smile of sorts where his father would not have. The endevor excited him. "Si, Madonna Diamante," Madame Diamond..his way of calling her La Diamante. Endearing, really, "It will be done. Shall I call La Bella Monroe as well? Of course, she moves with the Master Monroe." Claramae nodded, for it was so. You could part them to a fashion but there was always a unison to the movement. "Yes, you may. I will require your Lady Stepmother as well, so that I may begin to oversee other preparations for this journey in to Argyll territory."

Or for the return to the marble floor, whichever one's pleasure.

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

Preperation

"Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed". - Winston Churchhill




She had told the King and Queen that she was retiring from the active skills in her office; in a meaning there would be no more mysterious disappearence of her person from the populace. If blood was shed, her hand would not shed it. Her life including all respective limbs would be safe in the shadow of the throne's keeping. Now, none of this would prove any different. She would still be on the main island of the monarchs. The throne was indeed visible from her estate off in the distance. There would even come to pass a time when at the great Laurence House within the city, she would quite literally be in the castle's shadow. It would only be the direct activity that would prove more of a quandry if it were so deeply cared for that it would ruin a sense of self to cast aside a wished lived for quite a long time.

Or so it was to her. Nearly two years of peace. It was more a gift than any riches, property, or shows for merit's reward.

She leaned against the pillar of a room in the estate that had been made for her pleasure. It was based on the hidden rooms and hallways within robust arches. She swam in reflection. An ambient sea of endless light and color to show what was indeed above the head that turned an eye toward the ceiling with a smile. The true ballroom was above.

Her artifice? Below.

In consideration of the time ahead, the Voltaire men were given the keys to the world below. Didn't they know it already? The years of exposure to the beloved still created a place of coveted solitude. A rumor of solitary confinement in mirrored beauty was known but never the confirmation. The Elder Voltaire commented to the younger, "No doubt to remind her of the beautiful mirrored halls in Italy and Germany. They are a very rare, precious addition to a home." The quality of glass, the number of sheets it took, and the delicate construction deterred many from the idea that it belonged on walls. Younger son remarked, "It is very beautiful. Yet, I do not understand something." Maxamillion gave a nod of his head as if to understand what Claudio hadn't finished speaking. "Why? The secret? Ah. Even if she has after so long allowed us to truly live as a family, my son, never forget. La Diamante is first, Vittergaust's chosen. Even he, warm as he was, was famed to have secrets one still has to uncover. Second, the easiest to understand, is she is a woman. She still keeps a woman's heart inside of her chest. It is a weary heart, I would imagine." When both men saw the back of the Grandmaster, they bowed despite the distance still twixt she and them. Then, she turned to cant her head to them. Without any further ceremony, both men drew their rapiers out as they ran forward to close the space between them. On purpose, her back remained to them then. Only at the precise moment when their blades were a few meager inches from impact did she turn about to confront them. Instead of a rapier in their fashion, with basket hilt, she fought with the blade hidden to live inside of her cane. A piece of silver that lay flat when the cane was intact now curved enough when withdrawn to serve as the place to settle the back of her hand. Claudio found his foil pressed down, while Maximillion sought the attack from behind.

It was the most beautiful of dances; let the ancient knight keep embittered swords to lay across suits of heaviness in death. Let them push the muscles in defeat while procurring a victory otherwise. The rising tide of change had climbed to dazzling heights in their world a full age before it would emerge in the world. Rapier's song filled the below mirror-room. As the light bent to host the images of the Voltaire men, Claramae moved between each, away from, and inside again. Each man would take the opposite angle of the other. Every hit was in syncopated rhythm; no mercy was spared the Grandmaster for no one would spare her mercy. The physical disadvantages of her time away from the Continent would be exploited without care. It was why she was made to twist by them, to bend. To jump from their low cuts, to duck the high ones. They did not fight as gentlemen. Her back, tender side, and weak points of leg were what was to be strengthened. When Claudio slowed for a moment to allow a regain of even a slight misstep in footing, the Grandmaster's strike told him,No! Youth has no respect for age, here. Challenge me still!

Minutes crawled on to the course of seeming years. In reflection they swam through times long gone or yet to be. Claudio saw his future open in the deadly, majestic grace of those who proceeded him, and in some ways, had retracted to give him his time. Now he understood why. In this place they could dance to the time of steel with no one to disuade them, orshow worry for her. They could do this until the precise moment where the tip of her blade was coated in blood from the thin swipe across his chest, and from one on his father's arm above his hard leather wrist guards. It would be a womb reflecting the rebirth of to this day what he had only heard of in some regard. He was privy to the mind, for she tested his language, history, and economic knowledge often. Yet he never thought to have the honor of a dance with Master St. Laurence.

She too, bled. But not from their blades. The scars on the uppermost of her back had been split in the extensions the body now considered unnatural. When he came to her she shook her head, gently. " It is alright," she showed him no pain. Did she feel it now as the skin still split, as the blood seeped in to the cotton, and under the leather bodice that gave her support? "This is necessary..the scars need to be split, to stretch again. You fight well, Young Master. Faster than I have seen in your times past with even Monroe. You will be a true challenge for him now. You were one for me."

The Elder Voltaire bowed, and offered, "You have improved your style in these last few months. It comes as heightened each time, and I do believe you are at the zenith of it now."

She had never forgone excersise in prowess, for they helped to give movement to a body that for days on end could pain her so much there was naught to do but go a'bed as remedy was figured from there. What had changed was the nature of the excersise. If God were kind, she would need hang not precarious on the edge of a roof. While one may sit upon the edge still with no worry of failure, one could not climb as high. She was fast yet not yet as fast as she had been. The naked eye would never know the difference. Master Voltaire would, and the Young Master could tell the difference in free movement as compared to restraint. She went about putting the sword in to the casing, and it became a supportive tool for now. There was a fire in her body that threatened to burn it down from the inside out. Yet, she thrived on that fire. The twisted blaze had no place in the outward mask, save a long breath outward where the rest were strangely quiet.

"Come, let us away. The physican will need tend me, and I will look over myself as well. I will need to rest, so as to be restless later on." She moved with no one's arm, using the noiseless stick to go with noiseless steps. Then, Maximillion offered her his arm, and Claudio followed close behind. He wondered who else would have the privlege to dance with La Diamante.

The world beyond would not be a kind lead, though, and he hated this.

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

To Dress

There was an art to being a killer in as much as there was, in the same turn, to being woman. While it was the culture of the land that worth rested beyond worldly trappings, in the same breath such trapping did still put forth the agenda that discussion in terms of coffer weight were open. Admitting to the juxtaposition of the world was important. Knowing how to navigate the strange seas while dressing the "ship" in the proper sails was quintessential to success.

The bedroom of the Master was the shipyard for wherein a great, majestic sea vessel was being constructed to move with glory in the open water. No less than three maids drew open the wardrobes to present an assortment of gowns, underskirts, and pieces of assorted garb for the materials. Foundation pieces of bodices, corsets, and the delicate matters of what no true lady discussed beyond came to join. From stem to stern, inner birth and upper decks, the ship must be well constructed.

It must be adorned! Ah yes how the railings, the very body work of the ship must carry a sense of dignified opulence.

"Bring out more of the damask, a satin, and a velvet. Let me look at all of the closely. Colors? Two greens, a sienna, and the purple seeming mixed with a brown? That will tone the idea of a pure purple not upon a royal person." Sumptuary Laws. What were they on this island but an idealogy for the modest, a decree of the deep faithful in the Church so that the Cardinals would look well in their maiden colors alone? There was so much to consider in the selection of impressionable dressing that it would make one dumb trying to figure the twists of every nuance. Each one that came forward was a fitting thing for a late winter's sail.

Beautiful Italian creatures where the waist had risen, therefore emphasizing a body length. Others were Germanic in origin, holding to them slashed sleeves of one shade where beneath a fine under dress could be shown of expensive fabric. These gowns had pieces to be exchanged with others. French fashion was never to be disregarded; with it she could combine the modesty of English woman with a boldness in design that assisted in displaying the ship's figure. Yet to sail forth in one's best array was to be at once a member of two Armada's: The King, of course. The Duke, her husband, without question as well. How would he take this charge? It was a fine question. To go forth on this errand was to sail of one's own agenda, yet to go forth nonetheless. A finger to the chin gave pause.

It would be one of the women who supervised the lady's wardrobe that offered up the following suggestion, and the youngest at that. Were not the young filled with new vision where the old were set in ways? "If..I may, Madame," Cecilia offered, " You have always looked beautful in shades of scarlet, ja? One of the first times ever I see you, it was in a gown not too unlike a deep fire. There was another that seemed to be almost a black, but it was not. Both of them had a..a..raised collar. I think it is from Spanish court, ja?" The niece of Bromheilde and heir to such a place in the Lady's household, learned that she was able to offer up such points for consideration. It would bring a sense of familiarity to the new design while setting it ablaze, if one would, in the water. Behold now, all the architects considering the new piece of news.

It was good news too that would bode a wise decision.

"My saya, with the overpiece that has the risen collar around the neck. I do have two of these , one the red of fire, and one the fading red to black. I think I should like the red of fire died, a little to blend with the reds of local tastes, yet it shall still stand." Bromheilde did add, "It is well made to your proclivities, and can be easily adjusted, the lacing on the sides, ja. A new coloring there." The final decision was this, coming from the Master herself. "It is also my husband's favorite dress. He had a beautiful needlework and pearl added in to it about that color, saying it set apart the swan. Yes, the Duke's favorite gown. Let that one do. See it is died as I have specified, the lacings well fitted, and a the sleeves given extra pearl to match the collar. A new pair of boots will do I think, and the chemise, let it be sumptious. One may see much good fabric through the lacing and sleeves. The Duke has made a gift of new fabric, so let it be of that."

The Master would also select accompanying jewels, not merely for their beauty but their poignancy to the matter if a need should arise. Ruby tear drops that held poison waiting for the right twist to unleash. Oh so many things, oh so wonderfully crafted.

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

Preperation II - Husbands and Wives
(coming soon)