Italian Intrigues

[Ana deCervillion]

The Beginning


For nearly a month now, she had been guest to the Duke and Duchess of Skye and yet there was still a sense of newness whenever leaving the rooms that were given to her and her routine. There was something entirely invigorating about her new surroundings and she did her best to keep her composure neutral whenever a member of the Lord Chamberlains staff was about. Couriers from Italy came almost on a weekly basis and she wanted nothing to return to her Uncle in regard to how much she enjoyed the peace that had invaded her being since arriving. On the whole, everyone seemed to have relaxed their guard with each passing of the days until she could go about for a walk in the winter garden grounds or stroll into the Great Hall without ceremony or fuss being involved. And if she sometimes stole a few moments for herself, none were the wiser thanks in part to her champion knight, Terenzio. Quiet and serious, he often surprised her with small gestures of kindness that indicated that he was more aware of her current internal mental and emotional state than she thought was possible. If she wished a moment's peace, he gave them. If she desired the sounds of a rousing game of dice, the lifting of cups with wine then he arranged it. Anything and everything that was at his disposal for her pleasure was undertaken as if she had set him on the quest for the Holy Grail.

Was it any surprise then when she was approached by Don Marcos, her Chamberlain regarding a conspiracy to see her harmed that it was Terenzio who was purportedly at fault? Confused and unsure she brazenly disclaimed the accusations for false, whirling into a rage that only her mother might have been proud of. It left her ruined and worn then when papers were produced to the contrary of Terenzio's innocence. Detailed accounts of whom he was meeting with, their discussions and the arrangements that were being made even then regarding her abduction and subsequent ransom were clear, concise and to the point. Exactly the sort of workmanship that Ana-Catalina had come to expect from her Champion. There in the little corner of paradise, her world was slowly sinking back into the dark abyss that she had thought had been fled in Italy. "We can not ignore this issue, Madonna! This is irrefutable proof of guilt, and as you know is punishable by death. It is ... treason." Don Marcos' voice was a rasp of disdain, heavily accented, his breath ripe with the Madeira he had imbibed only moments before coming to break the news to the young heiress. With hands collapsed into her lap, the clear gray of her eyes regarded the aging man while she chose her words with great care. "He is to be arrested, charged and forcibly put to the death then. No one of my routine, no one of Italy will be allowed to conspire against the House of Ferrara and live to tell their tales." Her voice never shook, nor was there any inflection of anger or malice. For all her insides quivered and her heart broke, there was nothing she could do to stay the hand of the law. Terenzio, her favored knight who she had thought on before like a brother had conspired to end her life. Such tangled webs we weave, she thought.

It would be dawn before the order she had signed, the warrant for his execution was carried out. In the quiet barracks held by the Italians, Terenzio was trussed like a turkey, boarded onto one of their ships and sailed off the coast of Skye before he was beheaded. In accordance with the rules of hospitality, Ana-Catalina couldn't let the blood of his betrayal stain the soil of the place she had seen as a refuge. When the deed was done, she bestowed the favor of her grace on the knight who had completed the gruesome task by making him her new champion.

"Rise, Macario as Champion Knight." On her tongue, the words turned bitter and her heart shrank further away into her chest. No longer would there be any fraternal feelings toward her Champion, because he was dead, replaced now by one of his brothers in arms. Regarding Macario, she noted that he was just as weathered as Terenzio did, but his eyes were almost lifeless, like that of a doll's. On her guard now, thanks to this betrayal she spoke firmly and quietly, her voice laced with steel and decision.

"Know that you are charged by the Lord Bishop of Rieti, and of the Duke of Ferrara and of the King of Naples with my care. See that I am not disappointed in that care or you too shall face the consequences of your actions. Choose wisely which master you serve." With a renewed pledge of fealty, she dismissed him only to find herself faced with her constant companion and duenna.

Suddenly old, the young heiress all but faded into the chair her duenna prepared. "Is it only I, Lucrezia, or has this paradise suddenly turned into my tomb? Will I die here, I wonder?" Quiet, almost a whisper she voiced words that had been stirring the many months since she begun the journey to Skye.

"It is not for me to say, Madonna. But if you ask me, then I think perhaps you are far more dramatic than is called for. You have routed the evil from the household and have done what must be done. A credit to your character indeed how you have handled it all." Sniffing lightly at the use of such words, the elder Lucrezia watched carefully as her charge's gazed moved over the room. As if searching for some shadow, as if searching for some other danger to her person.

Feeling the need to sigh, she squelched the urge while in the company of her duenna and instead turned a courtier's smile toward the older woman. "I would have a bath then, Donna Lucrezia. I wish to wash away the feeling of grit that this has left me with. My hair is to be scrubbed twice and my body trice if necessary. I shall use the apple blossom oil afterward. And the rose damask with the lawn chemise."

Nothing gave her duenna more pleasure than ordering the servants about, and Ana-Catalina saw no reason than for her to think that she was as unaffected by this as she might have been had it be raining! No one, not even a member of the court here, nor any who past her by would know of the terrible fear that gnawed at her. Not a one.

"When I am finished with my bath, I wish a meeting with Don Marcos and his Grace, the Bishop of Rieti. There should be a mass said in honor of our continued good health and the death of the traitor. And I wish to send a letter home to my brother, Alonso. Our last letter from him said that he is to be married and I would send him a gift." Of course, that she would get him on this isle was something to ponder but she knew that she need only seek the Lady Rosalind to find an answer that would be suitable for the future King of Naples.

Once alone, Ana-Catalina could let the shivering that had wracked her steel straightened spine start. She let it continue until the whole of her body shook. Not from anger, but from the stark fear that had to be kept so bottled up. If Terenzio had succeeded, then what other manner of game was afoot and how could she keep those she loved safe? Alonso was as sweet as her father, and just as inept at intrigue. If anyone were in greater danger it would be he. Hopefully with Isauro there, he was safe and taken great delight in the fact that he would soon be wedded and bedded. No doubt to someone rich, beautiful and with any luck, cunning. His wife would love him, for it was hard not to love Alonso and it was Ana-Catalina's hope that he would marry a lioness who could keep him safe.

Certain that there was nothing further to worry over for the night, she retired her thoughts and gave her body into the care of the ever competent and faithful Donna Lucrezia.[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

Interlude of Intrigue

There was game afoot on the isle. Knowing that there was seemed like mere child's play. Being for a certain exactly 'what' that game was would keep her from ending up in the same straits as Terenzio had. Ransomed or worse, dead. In these uncertain times, it was only shrewd to employ those who could be of the most use. Having only resided on the isle for so long there were rare few that Ana-Catalina could say might have the knowledge and the cunning that she would need in the coming months. Already there was word from Italy, and it was not good. Nor was it bad for that matter, and that was why she sent away her knight, Macario with orders to bring her the Butcher of Sleat. She had only met him once, yet it had been a meeting that was fresh in her mind if a little deluded on the details. He had scoffed at her joking reference to his female companion, but had made no move to protect her honor. There was a particular air about him, and if his eyes were any indication he was ruthless. It was that ruthlessness that she perhaps needed the most. In view of his mistress, Macario was if anything a good, loyal and dutiful knight. But in the private of his thoughts, and in the company of his true master he was anything other. Secreting a lone man into the west wing of Griffin Castle was not an easily done thing, nor did he agree but there was little choice in the matter and what might transpire would no doubt be of some interest to whom he bent his knee. Finding the man, known by many locals as the Butcher of Sleat had been easy. Actually getting him to accompany him back to the castle was another matter that left his mouth foul and his temper short. Were he able, he would strangle the small white neck of the Heiress of Ferrara and be done with it. Her apartments were quiet, her duenna soundly asleep in the next room and the Lord Chamberlain of the House happily ensconced with one of the maid's. In the glow of firelight and candle's she stood waiting with all the seeming patience of the Blessed Virgin, eyes of argent clear and face devoid of anything other than faint curiosity. It was a courtier's trick she used often and usually well. To Macario it was as smug as a cheshire's smile and he was loathed to say he had to call her anything but the bytch she was. "Madonna, he is here as you have commanded." Although, it hadn't been easy you lean faced wench. Palms suddenly damp, she kept them folded before her for no more than the span of a heartbeat before dismissing her knight. "Leave us, and see that we are not disturbed." Without a quaver she faced Percival as she might a noted dignitary, letting the frown and shadow of the dismissed knight linger only a moment longer in her mind before focusing down to the more pertinent matter at hand. "I would say welcome, but you do not strike me as the sort who ever enjoyed being beckoned thus. My apologies, but I must be ... discreet." Discretion a truly Italian vocation, she always thought. She prayed it worked in this instance.

The Butcher of Sleat was a moniker given to Captain Eight Gazes, the Captain of the Vigilant-- a ship spawned from hell, as the Scots recalled. The late Captain was presumed dead, and Percival had taken his place That was the outside story, but Percival was Eight Gazes. When he'd been beckoned forth, he allowed curiosity to lead his way and walked beside the boulder of a Knight with a refined walk. Everything about Percival was fluid with motion, even the sway of his narrow shoulders and placement of swinging hands screamed of his dominance and perseverance with an unspoken melody. When they were welcomed, Percival followed the lead and came to the room where the source of this particular summoning had originated, and he stood partial, with a stern silence as the Knight was dismissed. When she spoke, his glance was averted to her's, and his eyes bore into her. The fire from the hearth cast a luminescent glow about his frame, making him all the more frightening than approachable. He remained where he was, until beckoned to sit. Though when he spoke, his voice was low, but not emotionless. ``You already have my name, perhaps a mutual respect so I know of whom I am speaking?``

Straightly laced, she stood so much like stone without giving away the rampant uneasy that skirted down her spine until it was lodged firmly in her stomach where it churned greasily. Fortified with a breath she sat opposite him with the blaze of the hearth next to them and a low table with a jug of wine ready should they have wished to avail themselves of it. "Lord Vizharen, though I am familiar with you our meeting was far too brief that I should have made any impression. I am, for lack of a better word a guest here at the request of my Uncle, the Duke of Ferrara. You may call me Ana-Catalina since there is no loyalty between us as of yet." She could have very well been gearing up to talk fabrics with a merchant for all the care she took with the words. Her voice was accented, but clear and precise for she would have no misunderstandings between them. "I am a rich woman, but I am also unfamiliar with this Island and those that choose to make it their playground for intrigue. I do not chose to be a pawn, but I understand my lot in life and that I am one regardless of my feelings to the matter." Propping one hand to the arm of the chair, the clear gray of her gaze broke from his only briefly to look toward the flames, letting the shadows fall to help hide her thoughts before turning back. Her hand fell then once more to her lap, joining with the other so that they were folded, prayer like. "I have already executed one man for treason this week past, and I am loathed to be waiting in the wings for the next knife in line. I have need of a guide to familiarize myself with this place, and to perhaps assist me with gathering information that is beyond my reach, such as it is." Her hands moved then, spreading apart, palm up and fingers splayed. A sign of futility. "I would know your thoughts on this, and should you refuse shall keep the confidence of your presence here." Without either knowing however, the breech of his presence within these apartments would already be reported.

Percival was no fool, and he recognized her accent, analyzing the way she said her words and chose her language. To defer the fact that she was foreign was to deny the inevitability the sun would rise and fall-- it was as clear as day and in Scotland.. point proven. He had found his seat and sat comfortably, despite some stiffness in his side. When she finished, and allowed him the chance to speak his mind.. there was an overbearing silence. When he did speak , it was in her native tongue and he said it fluently. (Translated) You summoned me for this? I am an ambassador, not some cheap bard looking for extra coin, Ana-Catalina.`` The name rolled off his tongue like spikes. They pricked and hurt to swallow. He took a long moment, bringing his leg to cross the other. (Translated)``And why must you be discrete? Clearly this is no matter to be secretive about, unless you are performing illegal activities here in Skye ..`` He left the sentence clearly unfinished, allowing her to fill in the gaps. Unbeknownst to her, illegal activity was his forte.

Careful to keep her expression neutral, she recalled many an evening spent in the company of her uncle and the waxen faces of the dead he kept as reminders of his skill. Though he was skilled in her tongue, it was completely devoid of the regional inflections that would have marked him more of an Italian. "To be frank, I do not care for your tone but you are entitled to it. I apologize that my ... proposition may have made you feel as if you were little more than, as you say, a cheap bard looking for extra coin. I can not be certain who in my household I can trust and that includes the knight who I sent for you this evening." It was insulting to her to have him insinuate that she might be taking part in some illegal activity, but even she did not know how deeply her uncle's game ran and that was cause enough for her to worry. "It is not your skill with a psaltery or voice I wish to employ. It is ... what is not, how would you say? ... Seen?" Refusing to speak in Italian, she chose German knowing it was a language he knew and one none of her own household were schooled in. All of course, save the Lord Chamberlain. Throat dry, she reached then with a careless sort of grace for the jug of wine and poured a measure first into an alabaster goblet for him, and then her. It was railed so thin, that it was nearly transparent, the mark of a well established household. Taking a slow breath, she drank but not deeply to wet her throat. It also proved of course, that it wasn't poisoned but then, a mere glass could be poisoned couldn't it? Wasn't that how the last Duke of Ferrara's reign had been ended?

Percival would not reach for the glass of wine, but he watched her drink. He had listened to her speak in German and recollected the change in tones. Perhaps he was not the only one culturally fluent in these parts, and that made him at slight unease, enough so she would see him adjust in his seat for no reason.He glanced to the door at the mention of her Knight, and then looked to her. (Translated)``So, you are asking me to do what?`` He was frank, to the point. When it came to bargaining, he was a pirate. He kept to the word of the bargain, but under what context usually remained to be seen.. which was where he found he could alter the angles of his associate's fate. He'd helped them, help himself. He was good, and he knew it. The fact she had sought him out in this facade only gave tribute, despite his cover, that the latter narcissist observation of himself was true; and simply good at what he did. She'd see that Percival was a man of a valuable taste, and he represented nobility in the highest male fashion with a touch of adventure. He favored the sailor look, with long dark hair and ice cold eyes. The hint of a full beard, neatly trimmed. The man was eye candy, but that was his lure. He was not to be trusted, yet found himself in the most trusted circles. Most ironic.

She had been schooled well at least in that her mother sought to educate her as much as possible. Giving her daughter the tools to ferret out intrigue, kept her head firmly on her shoulders and the blood flowing in her veins. She was no fool. Setting the cup of alabaster aside, she leaned forward only slightly while her eyes remained locked on his. He was older than her, the dew still soft on her features and the first blush of youth new yet but there was a certain hardness there too cultivated by tragedy and fate. "I am asking you to do as you do best, and that is not to dally with being an ambassador because if that is all you were then I shall gladly eat the hangings upon my bed, good sir." The delicate shell of her nostrils flared, knowing that even now when she so wished to crawl up and hide away there would be no surcease until this business was concluded. "I require a guide for this island, to know the most discreet Inns and Taverns, the safest ports of call that are closest to the Scottish mainland and to know exactly where stands Avaria and anyone else. My uncle may double deal as he shall, but I would rather keep my head on my shoulders than have it forcibly removed. Is that concise enough for you my lord?" Without raising her voice, nor inflecting any anger she gave the impression of a young woman who was by all means fighting for her life. Relaxing back into her chair, she looked away and with a brief moment of insanity let her guard down. "I have no desire to be dead within the month, but I shall be if I am not careful. I ordered a man killed and it is no easy thing. Killing is not my vocation." It had made her positively ill, but no one knew that. Not even her duenna and Lucrezia stuck to her side as a wet sheet might to a dry body. Swallowing, she regained her composure if only to regard him again. "I fear what I see in you, so rather than shun it I would take it into my confidence and pray it does not come back to roast me." She could have used something more bawdy, but chose not to.

He chuckled. ``Hmm, perhaps.`` He said, answering her question. He listened to her go on, and allowed enough time for him to muse over it carefully, analyzing each word of what she spoke. She had a problem with her uncle. He double dealed. And someone was out to kill her. ``Pardon me for coming to this conclusion, Miss Ana-Catalina, but it seems to me you're trying to, how should I put it? Survive the storm?`` She'd see in the pipes of flames as they danced across his face, a smirk. ``I sense someone is after you, yes? You said you were here on your uncle's accord, yet you speak of him double-dealing. I can only concede that this double dealing you speak of, is this whirly thing Italians refer to as, loyalty. Who is with who, fun game, yes..`` His smirk faded, and he reached within his coat, pulling from there a flask which he slowly opened up and drank from. ``Again, pardon me for saying so, but it seems you need someone who can get into the darkest corners of this isle, and others.. to give you information about what's being done in concern with your head, which you stressed about keeping it on your shoulders.`` Another chuckle and he mused after a long drink. ``So I will ask for the third and final time, what it is you request of me-- and make it detailed. I tend to stick to the word and context of my contracts, Miss Ana-Catalina.`` He tucked the flask away and allowed his hands to fold over one another in his lap. His gaze never left her when he spoke, an unnerving trait of his.

His near callous way of putting things made her laugh, and it was a freeing thing to do since she hadn't laughed since long before she left Naples. "Of a surety, my lord Percival." When the humor faded, she seemed too young to be carrying the burden of life and death, but such was the life of an Italian dignitary. "I wish for you to give me a guided tour of this Island, leaving out no harbor or refuge you yourself might use in order to ... hide from those that might hunt you. My uncle has pledged aid to the Duke and Duchess, yet has sent envoys to Maubrey, who I do not believe shares the same beliefs as the Duke. There are yet still more sent to France, and a few to The Bruce himself. My Uncle plays the table at every which way, remaining just inside the line of being polite so that it does not seem as if he is loyal to a single side." Cutting herself off with a vehement curse in Latin pertaining to the south side of a pig, she rose to quietly stalk in the half shadow of the chamber. It was a rare show of unease, the hiss of damask perhaps the only indication that this was a hard learned habit. "If need be, I would also employ you to assist me with safe passage out of Skye should it become necessary that I may not remain here. There are letters, suitors are soon to make land fall and I've little patience for the groveling." With one hand settled to the small of her back, the other swiped gently at the crease that had formed between her brows. "He is sending a Scotsman for the sake of the Virgin Mother. He would shackle me to an unwashed barbarian who no doubt shall not be able to read, let alone do much more than fight. I'd rather hang from a sailors gallows." Her impression thus far hadn't been favorable of the Scottish men. Remembering her composure she turned back and settled herself back into the chair, in the full light of the hearth once more. "In return, you may name your price. Titles, lands, ships. All that is within the power of Ferrara and Naples is yours." Naples and Ferrara alone made up for two thirds of Italy and were the most powerful branches of the city-states there. Only the pope held more sway, and even her uncle held that man's ear.

Percival remained quiet, listening to her carefully. When she rose, he did too. He followed her pace and came to stand beside her so that he could analyze her emotions by looking at her face. He basked in her unease, the fear she had mentioned. When she returned, he did as well. He found his seat soon after she did, and adjusted himself much like he had prior to standing. ``You speak of prices and power beyond my beliefs, but.. it is not what I want.`` He admitted, turning down her propositions. It would likely be a first she'd ever met a man who could deny power as if it were stale bread or someone's bad cooking. ``And as for suitors, they can be handled..`` He left room for insinuation. ``I will confer to you, that while you are under my watchful eye, no suitor shall find you. And if the case be just that, he will find his God; be it Hell or Heaven.``-- Another long pause, his analytic gaze.. ``I will help you, Miss Ana-Catalina. But in order for me to help you; you will have to conform to my guidance without objection. As you put it, the places I would go, well.. if you do not do things my way, you'll end up chained to some Scotsman's bedchambers doing his beck and call.`` He allowed a pause for the vision to sink in. ``I hope that was as vivid for you as it was me; because I surely would not want to see that fate for you, Miss Ana-Catalina. `` He cleared his throat. ``At your lead, Miss Ana-Catalina, do we have an accord?``

She had loved once, in the fancy of a young woman when she had first been betrothed. It had been one of the few lessons that had left a permanent mark on her mind, her heart. Taking great pains to remain as devoid of expression as possible as he spelled out the terms, there was a moments flicker of emotion and it flared bright and red across her line of vision. "Must you be vulgar? I've no need for such epithets to be used in my presence no matter how clearly the picture you draw is with it." There was a razor on her tongue, but it was there and gone. Argent eyes remained steadfast on his though, and no matter how much she wished to she would not look away for fear of being thought of as a coward. "I shall be in accord with you, Lord Percival but I would know what payment you seek other than my ... conformity? Let us broke no quarter since we are being frank, friendly even." A turn of her hand motioned toward both of them at large. "There needs be some exchange between us for this to be considered at quits." She found it unnecessary for him to bring to her mind the mental picture of some hulking Scotsman with his rough manners, but it served its purpose and she could only admire him for that. "Were I not afraid of you, no doubt I would highly respect you." It was barely a murmur, but the words were there and she hadn't spoken so candidly since last when she spoke to her brother, Alonso who was the next King of Naples. Just the reminder of it brought a faint note of sadness to the clarity of her gray eyes, but that as masked by the courtier's smirk and a single uplift of a downy brow.

``Your payment to me is conformity, Miss Ana-Catalina. A price which can not be held in terms of trade, but in will and morals alone.`` Percival was a man of careful words and sharper weapons. He could only confer in this meeting, she had found the right person for the job, but to what means to get to her objective. That would be left to the obscurity of the future. He shifted again, allowing the fire to shed some light over the scarred portion of his face. In this image, he could be compared with that of Lucifer himself. The most beautiful of all the Angels, but also the most deceiving. That scar only paid homage to the deception which had wrought through his life like a rampaging war upon a once peaceful life. His lips quivered up at her last mention, he'd heard her. ``There is a good reason for you to fear me, Miss Ana-Catalina. Take that under advisement as we progress with your tour. -- Now, is there any other pressing matters you wish to confer with me? Or may I go about my own devices?``


Nodding then, she took a breath and let it out slowly. "I shall do so. There is naught else. You have my word, but know that if you double cross me, for gain elsewhere I will kill you." In that her words were dangerously calm, the moon pale features flushed from the fire completely devoid of worry when taking a life when such means were necessary. She could be quite mercenary, but had failed yet to let that inner part of herself come to light. Rising from the chair she had occupied once more, she paced away from him while gathering her thoughts. She would be wise not to trust him, at any measure but it was perhaps one of her major faults that she trusted sometimes as easily as a babe in arms might. "I give you leave, my Lord. Macario will return with you to the postern gate. He shall give you the seal of my household so should you need to reach me, I would make use of it to bypass my knights, and the servants of my household. As for the progressus, we shall see what we see. I bid you a good evening and a good morrow. I pray to hear from you soon regarding the details of our arrangement." Not yet at the majority of her life by the letter of the law, and already she felt far older than she should have. It was the weight of feebly trying to defend one's life she supposed while lingering at the mullion paned window. In that moment, she was very much alone without even a thought to keep her company.

When she spoke of killing him, in that pause he chuckled and replied back calmly, almost amused. He did not doubt her connections, but doubted the means in her abilities to find him. He had once out ran two Kingdoms in one instance, he could avoid one hot headed Italian. She'd pick this up in his reply. ``You will try, Miss Ana-Catalina.`` When she came to stand, he followed her lead. ``Then I bid you farewell, Miss Ana-Catalina. `` He lingered not a moment longer and turned to walk off. He seemed to prowl with his deceptive walk far more methodically time and calculated with each step. She had every reason to fear this man, and every reason to rejoice in gaining an ally beyond all in measure, but at what cost? He would disappear, leaving her to her own devices.[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

Penance and Perjury

In weak light of the morning, with barest rise of the sun Griffin Castle and its occupants stirred. Within the west wing of the castle, where the Italians were housed more than a single person went about the quiet business of intrigue at yes, even this early hour. For one, it was a morning of discovery that could not be looked over. Leaving the bedchamber of one powerful man, she sought the company of another if only to receive disturbing news of the night before. Wasting no time with questions that plagued, nor with thoughts that were churning with other coils she went then to the rooms of the Bishop of Rieti, a man to whom she carried no love for but was loyal to for all he held in his confidence. Rapping lightly at the door, the diminutive woman was allowed entrance only once she had spoken that there was word for His Grace regarding the Madonna.

Seated before a table laden with rich food and even more potent wine, robed in the scarlet of his office the broad face of Rieti listened with a snake's endless stare to the woman who was now knelt before the alter of his board. "Your Grace, there is some news which you have warned me to be watchful of. This night past, it is said that the Principessa received a visitor within her chambers without the chaperone of her duenna." Dark head bent she knew well enough not to raise it until given the blessing of the Bishop. What spirit she might have possessed had long been broken by the staff of righteousness this man welded with a fierce zealotry that bordered on fanatic.

Though the news was disturbing, it was news he had long thought would soon come to him and with it there was only a suffuse of glee that wound its way through his blood. Though he smiled, it was one that chilled the blood. His voice was a low rumble, the first strains of delight masked only by a careful coating of skillfully constructed concern. "What other evidence is there? You must understand that to bring these charges against a woman of Madonna deCervillion's station there must be more to this than a single witness such as yourself." Fingers steepled, he glanced only once at the ring of his office glinting on his hand before one of his own servants near. No more than twelve or so, the boy stood with downcast eyes as the Bishop issued his orders. "Find me another who was witness to this visitor, for your mother's sake won't you my dear boy?" Barely an utterance of acquiescence left the boy's lips before he was allowed to leave, glancing only once at the kneeling form of the woman that the Bishop swore was his mother. Though he felt no love for her as a son might, he did not wish to see her come to harm.

With the boy's absence, Rieti finally turned his attention once more to the woman before him. "You may rise, my child. And take care that all that has been said is between us. You were wise to seek my counsel regarding this matter and it shall be dealt with. Alphonse of Ferrara has entrusted me to keep his heir intact and I shall do just that." Beneath the cover of skirts, Isabella felt her knees begin to shake as she stood taking greater care not to look the Bishop directly into the eye. He had a way, she thought,of seeing into the soul and tearing out the weakest parts of you. "With your blessing, I shall return to my duties before I am missed." She waited only so long as it took for him to wave his hand before dashing from his presence.

She made it only so far before being stopped forcibly by Macario, who held her shaking form as if it were spun of glass. "You have gone to the Bishop then? He knows?" Although murmured, the questions were as potent as the heat the danced along the skin along her neck where he breathed, just beneath the lobe of her ear. It was for this man, this one alone that she had forsaken so much. Desperate with love and longing, her own voice was tremulous with desire as it was with worry. Her life still hung in the balance of power held by others and her darker secret was held only by the church. "I have, and he had said that another witness must be produced before anyone may charge her any wrong doing." It hurt still to be used in such a way, but little did Isabella have in the choice. Her right to a choice died long ago with the birth of her son, Raphael.

Regarding the woman in his arms without showing his disdain for her, he measured his words carefully before speaking while bussing her cheeks with small kisses. "I would not worry my heart. Though the castle was quiet, I doubt highly that no one saw us enter or leave through the postern gate. Rieti will find his witness and there will be no sparing deCervillion the penance she shall pay for her error." It gave him satisfaction, but only a little that it would not be him who meted out the punishment but Rieti was a harsh master when it came to the Church's stand on a woman being alone without a chaperone with a man who was not her betrothed, husband or member of her family. Taking comfort in that, he could smile a little and it was a thing of pure maliciousness. Looking down the stone corridor, he made rash promises to come to her before sending her on her way. It wouldn't be long before the young page in the Bishop's service found what his master desired and he too much make his report to his own. Wearing a faint sneer he went about it.

"You are of a certain of this? Rieti knows?" Cast in shadow, Macario remained within the light of the large room before the puppet master that pulled his strings. His loyalty had been so easily purchased when Ferrara had double crossed the House of Mantua and set loose new intrigues that would recoil for years yet in the kingdom of Naples. "I am certain. He will call upon her today. I did myself go out and do as she commanded, bringing him into her chamber before I was dismissed. I can not say for a certain what transpired from that meeting. I know only that they were in the other's company for more than an hour. It does not bode well." Baited breath head, he waited to be dismissed before hurrying then to his original post. The morning had been a rushed one and with it soon enough there would be an inquisition of the Madonna's person as to exactly what she had been doing with a man in her chambers the night before without her duenna or other chaperone.

--

"What you say is preposterous, Your Grace. I am innocent of the charge you seek to set against me and know not of why it is that I am being called before you." Inside she trembled with rage while outwardly she appeared to be no more as affected by this as she might if she were being asked how she faired the weather. Studious in a somber gown of heavy brocade the color of wet leaves and a chemise finely embroidered with golden tread she did indeed seem the implacable princess with chin upraised and regal and eyes of clear soft gray ever level with those of the Bishop. That she chose to stand her ground so firmly did give him a moment's pause but the evidence was against her and he knew not the extend of the young woman's corruption. It was certain that although she held a place in a royal household she was given far too much freedom for one so young. That she was female was simply another strike against her in the Bishop's eyes. Women were far too easily led, and spoiled by the arts and cunning of men.

"Child you have been called here before myself and my counsel because it is charged that you spend an hour or more with a man who is not your betrothed, nor your husband nor a member of your family. Do you deny this charge? There is some proof to the matter, and I am hard pressed to understand how you yourself might prove your innocence." Gone were the robes of scarlet he had dawned earlier in the day, replaced now in the afternoon by the dark cassocks of an ordinary priest. Only the lapel of royal purple and the ring that flashed at his right hand gave an indication of his office. Even his head was covered the tousle of the Catholic Order. When she merely glared at him, he found his patience for her noble demeanor thinning.

Gray eyes, like the color of soft moonlight drifted then from the Bishops face to that of her knight then onward to those of her household who were gathered, including Don Marcos Antonio d'Ercole her Chamberlain of the House. That all had been called here only proved that she was in dire straits but there was nothing she could do now that force her to show her hand. She had need of the contract she had made and refused with a stubbornness that no doubt would have made her mother proud. "Nae I have no proof of my innocence other than my word. I did not have verbal recourse with a man yester eve in my chambers. I am a virgin untouched still, Your Grace. Bring the examiner, and he will find that I do not lie." At least, that I do not lie about having bedded the man. Do they think I am a fool and would carelessly toss aside my dignity and honor for simple a thing as the minor pleasures of the bed? Fools.

Taken aback by so candid a proposal, Rieti regarded the principessa before meting out his judgement on the matter. "Five lashes to the hands for your lying. I have taken the sworn confession of no less than five people that you spent more than an hours time in your chambers with a man. This is not an unforgivable act but it is one that requires stringent penance." Rather than wait for her rebuttal, he past judgement as he would on anyone else. His word was that of the Pope, and his orders were clear. See to the continued education of the Princess and preserve her integrity until such a time as she can be married. "Once you've served your penance I shall send for the examiner. Only then will God be satisfied as will the members of your household whom your uncle has chosen."

Unable to respond due to the sheer note of rage building, she merely nodded before standing. "You pass judgement so easily, yet give me no opportunity to prove my innocence in the matter. Know that I shall indeed write when I am able to his Holiness of this." He would not side with her, but it was something Ana-Catalina never threatened lightly. Stiff lipped, she rose from her seat and stood steadfast like a statue with her arms out stretched, the delicate flat of her palms turned upward. With each fall of the rod, she felt herself shrink further inward so that the mewling sounds coming from her lungs were unrecognizable as her own. And when he was finished, she begged forgiveness for sins that were not her own and was escorted back to her apartments to be cared for by her maids. Byram, her Moorish physician was forbidden to her.

All these things made her only hate more the man of the cloth that called himself a Bishop. Had she her own way, he would die a horrible, vicious death.

[Ana deCervillion]

Names for Blood

He had been promised safe passage through the postern gate into the western wing of Griffin Castle, needing only to flash the seal given to him the night before. A pair of her maids escorted him, one blonde and quiet, the other a brunette with a sly smile and slightly crooked eye tooth escorted him through the long corridors to a small salon open at both ends. To stave off the chill of winter, the hearth blazed but she felt none of its heat. There was only the cold rage of her thoughts and the heat of her own shame. Seated by the wide bank of windows that overlooked part of the dormant garden. Her hair was loose, a dark cascade of pitch that left her face nearly as pale as newly fallen snow. What little color there was remained in her eyes, for they were dark and liquid like mercury that was set to a roiling boil. "You'll have to excuse her Grace. She was said to be indisposed unless t'was you who came to call, my Lord." Bobbing up and down, the brunette gave her mistress's visitor a canted look that bespoke of unsaid invitation before she skirted away toward the young woman robed in a loose gown of velvet the color of wine. "Madonna, Lord Vizharen is here." Snapped from her daydreams, she blinked once or twice toward the maid before motioning that both leave her in peace, save that Lucrezia be summoned. She would never again tempt fate with Rieti. "See that we are not disturbed." Her hands fluttered, carefully concealed within the folds of the voluminous bedroom coat she wore over the fine chemise of lawn. It seemed she had already prepared herself to be shackled inside for what good it did her. Head turned, she looked then toward Vizharen. "Welcome my Lord. To what, do I owe this honor?" Her voice held steady, but there was an underlying note, of tears not yet wept.

Honor, heh. ``You owe me no honor, Miss Ana-Catalina. But I must comment..`` He said, allowing the pair of maids to pass and disappear. He allowed one hand to settle over the cuff of a sleeve, and he turned to regard her once more. His steps were precariously measured to have some effect, but that was yet to be revealed. ``..it looks as if you survived your first encounter with a Scottish suitor. How was it?`` He even let the chuckle follow, low and amusing. He was joking, of course, but the tone was all too callous and judging. It was clear that he was one for emotions, just by the way he stared her down with those dark eyes was enough to make a cat turn away. He had come to rest up against a wall, his hands remaining in front of him where she could see them. He wore a fine tunic with form fitting trousers and leather boots that climbed the better part of his legs. A finely made, jewel studded rapier was tucked neatly within the buckled sling that crossed his narrow chest. And a small wooden stock stuck out from beneath a sash that was just shy of his belt. ``Pardon the pleasantries, contrary to what you think, I came to see if there was something you would like to ask of me.`` The fire granted her enough light to see the lower half of his face, and from that she would catch a hint of his smirk.

There was little left of her patience, such as it was for his mockery of her current unmarried state. Jaw set but eyes diverted she remained seated. "I have not yet met the suitor from Scotland, but I hear tell that he is ... pleasant of face and manner." Of course if she trusted her maid's, she might not be in caught up in her current state. "Fortunately, I shall not meet with him until such a time as I am ... no longer indisposed thanks to Bishop Rieti." She though the man of the cloth a pig, and the inflection of her voice showed as much. Stirring in her chair, only the flicker of her eye lids would give any indication of discomfort. "There is nothing to pardon, good sir. I merely thought to be considerate of your presence. I see now it is not necessary, so forgive me if I am not a charming companion for conversation." She wanted desperately for water, something to wet the burning that had enflamed her throat these many hours since having left the apartments of the Bishop but stubbornly she refused. Finally her gaze roamed toward him, taking his person and there was a moment's pause before she laughed bitterly. "Were I to ask you what is in my heart, the Pope would severe my limbs from my body. If I asked you, Lord Vizharen to kill the Bishop of Rieti, would you do it?" Chin tilted upward she all but challenged him with a glitter of gray eyes that were lit by the fire and unushered pain.

His eyes narrowed on her frame once she opened up to him. He allowed a long moment to pass after she had asked him to kill the Bishop. A moment that was long enough for him to bring her a small glass of water from the beverage stand off by the corner. When he came to her side, the glass was given to her and he knelt in front of her to look directly into her face. From it, he could derive the challenged look, and to it.. he smirked. ``Well first, I would ask you where this move will bring you in the whole.. debacle. Then--`` He cleared his throat. ``Then, I would ask you how?`` He left it at that, remaining in front of her and studying her eyes intently.. watching for something. Perhaps, for her to take a drink? Or maybe he wanted to make the request to make her that much more discomforting.

She could not hold the glass, nearly toppling it on its way back toward the table. It hurt nearly to much to hold the glass in her hands. Watching the water within slosh, she thought again about the thirst in her and wondered if it was for the water at all, or for something else. Something with a darker promise. "I can not hold the glass long, my Lord." Thankfully the folds of the coats long sleeves kept everything from sight. When he knelt before her, she could only look at him as if he perhaps had taken leave of his senses? "Were I to ask you, it would leave me outside of the laws of God and men. I would die for the order of his execution were I to do so publicly." Of course, they were not in public save for the quiet yet undoubted presence of her duenna who would for a certain run right to the Bishop and tattle. The witch! "You pose an interesting query however, and were it I who wished him dead then I would have it done in a manner both humiliating and public so that even his ghost would never show its face ever again." Her voice took on a clearly sweet note, as if she were jesting with him for the sake of the older woman in the corner of the salon who brusquely remarked in Italian that it wasn't polite to wish death on anyone, let alone an esteemed member of the clergy. "What think you of that? How could such a thing be possible?" Ignoring her duenna altogether, there seemed a fever in her now as her gaze roamed over his features, as if searching for the answer to some question she dared not voice.

The answer was found in the form of a smile as he came to stand easily, and without a sound of knees. He had understood the woman over in the corner and considered murdering her for being there, but swallowed the urge to by letting the smile fade. ``I would say you were crazy, Miss Ana-Catalina.`` Or was that the facade of a more honest answer. He could only conclude that she knew that Percival would kill him. -- Now that he was standing, he came to her side and took her arm into his hand. From it, he found her hand and forced it open. ``..Looks like someone has been a bad girl..`` Percival's face had remained constrained as he held onto her wrist with a firm grip, while his other hand ripped a small pouch from within his blouse. The pouch was opened and placed upon the table where he pulled her and her hand to. The pouch had a variety of small tools used in surgery by healers, and it had a small corked bottle with a clear liquid. The liquid seemed to host a series of small leaves within. Percival bit the cork and pulled it off. Then, he poured the liquid onto her hand.. it'd feel cold at first, then tingle. He set the bottle aside and used the rag within the pouch to jab at parts of her hand. ``I assume your friend did this, yes?``

Crazy? Were they in Italy he would have been struck down, strung up and quartered for such words. But here, on this lone isle without the courtesy of allies she could do nothing but give him a courtiers smile. "How kind of you to say so my Lord." Would that her teeth could part to actually speak the words, they might not have come out with such a hiss of derision. When he found what was currently left of the skin on her palms she wanted with such horrible yearning to draw a knife to him. She was not used to being touched without her permission and his familiarity with her person was to say the least, distressing. "Bad girl? Do I look as if I am a bytch collie?" Taking in what she hoped was a cleansing breath, she let only a marked note of curiosity take hold while he doctored her palms. "Were I an idiot, I would say a friend did this to me. Thus far, I do not think myself an idiot. If you refer to his Grace, the Bishop, yes. He did, on the account I could not prove that I had spent less than an hours time in your presence in my bedchamber without ... without knowing you." It was mollifying to voice the accusation again, let alone directly to him. When he hit a particularly sore area, she jerked her hand away. "Do you undertake all your contracts with such care?" It was a question she wasn't sure she wished an answer to.

When she asked if she was a bytch collie, he jabbed her hard in the hand and muttered, ``..yes.`` When she took her hand away, he stared blatantly into her face. When he reached forward again, he was a bit more rough and slammed the back of her hand into the table. ``Do not do that again, Miss Ana-Catalina.``-- He assumed that was answer enough for her, and he continued his work. The jabs were to pinpoint the most sensitive areas, and there was a reason for that. When he finished, he wrapped that hand with a thin piece of material that could be covered by a fashionable glove, were she to dress up. He would do the same for the other, taking his time to find each point within the inner palm of her hand, so he knew where to wrap and re-wrap the bandages. When he finished, her hands were given back to her and he glanced the old woman's way. When he turned back to her, he had a scowl that only made him that much more ugly. (Translated from German)``Should I intend to lend you my abilities, would it be the Bishop I should end, or the rat?``

Incensed that he would have the gall to answer in the affirmative, she nearly lost what little was left of her composure. "How dare you!" Rather than continue the tug of war with her own hand, her shoulders felt limp but not before viciously biting off a cry of distress over her injured hand. Bearing down, she only glared at him before turning her face away to swallow hard against the lump that formed in her throat. It would take some moments before she realized that his methods were far more astute than those of her maids. Rieti had not allowed her Moorish physician to see to her, thus the horrible state of her palms. It felt as if she were speaking through shards of glass that were hot and prickling in her throat, but she spoke levelly and in the same tongue. "Lucrezia is the only one I might trust, that is why she is here. Were you to lend me your abilities, I would convey to you that I would eat the Bishops heart for breakfast, and dance on the entrails of those in my household who conspire against me. Against the Crown of Naples, and the Duchy of Ferrara." Shoulders falling as she gently flexed her fingers, she felt old again. "I wish only to be safe, Percival. I have never felt safe." Clear eyed once more she regarded him with a strange sort of dispassion, like one of her uncle's waxen corpses.

``Very well, Miss Ana-Catalina. Give me names, and I will give you blood.`` He replied in their shared tongue. He had carefully packed his kit and tucked it back within his blouse. He regarded her with a fiery look of passion, his deep brown eyes suggesting the passion he took in his line of work. He could only assume that she felt that she'd chosen the right man for this job. He adjusted the cuffs around his wrists and found his seat across from her, where he fixed one leg upon the other and stared intently at her, waiting for the word to begin his duties for the Duchy of Ferrara.

So this is what it has come to? I am in one fell sweep to ruin the lives of those who say they are loyal to me? Woodenly, her body remained fixed but there was no leaving the fact that he offered what she desired most. If those she suspected were gone, would she not be safe? How could d'Este's touch her with no tentacles to do so? "Had I the names, I would give them but this intrigue is played too deeply at present. I know not who spoke with the Bishop for he said there were six people who came forward to say they had witness your arrival, the length of time you remained and your departure from my chambers." Weary of it all, she sighed gently and with renewed resolution reached for the water he had poured earlier. It hurt, but was more bearable now to grasp and lift it to her lips where she drank away the faint etching of what could have been glass. Refreshed, she regarded him with a tilt of her head. "I can not very well let you kill the whole of my routine, could I, Percival?" A smile, however faint played on her lips, truer than any she had previously worn. It left her looking once more a little too young for such deeply laid games.

He had stood up when she had taken a drink, and found the fire to a bit warmer than he had first intended. In his eyes, the flames were reflected off the moisture which resided there, and he regarded the flames as a solution to her problems, but instead dismissed the idea by lighting his cigarette and coming to stand away from her. He was practically consumed in the darkness of her room, and for that small jest, she earned a chuckle from him. ``No, no you could not.`` In the veil of the darkness, where only the light of his cigarette could barely imprint the thin lines he had for lips; a smile which matched her's formed. ``Well, as wonderful as your company has been, Miss Ana- Catalina. I feel I must go and confess my sins to the Bishop. These wicked bouts of onanism will prevent my path to Heaven. `` He would leave without another word, avoiding her routine on the way out.

Unsure if his words of confession were true, it took her no longer than a moment to laugh. She continued to do so until he was well gone and the fire dying. Were it not for her current predicament she might have risen and danced in some strange pagan fashion, had she known how to of course. No words were needed, since it was clear that she was certain her company was anything but wonderful to him. He would go his own way and she hers for the moment. Soon enough she had to face the news from Italy, and with it came men hand picked by her uncle. She loathed them already.[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

Lions Den

It would be some two weeks that would pass before she was considered hale enough to resume her duties. There had been news from Italy and it was in one hand annoying while in the other, darkly disturbing. What messages she could derive from the scribbled words on parchment long exposed to the elements were that her father's health was declining and that her mother was of a certain that her uncle was behind it. Alonso though happy regarding his upcoming nuptials, was cautious about taking the throne too soon while his father still breathed. Ana could only smile, knowing that of all people her brother was a gentle man. Perhaps more so than was wise.

In order to reply, she had to send her messages vicariously through a man she was coming to trust more and more although grudgingly so. Vizharen was not a man she might have taken into her confidence at any other time, but in desperate ones such as these, one had to court the other side of caution. At least, that is what her mother had always said. Having taken her mother's advice for face value on more than a single occasion she pushed her seal against the heated wax before sitting back with fingers loosely threaded together before her. Only her eyes gave anything away, the stormy color of them an indication that her mood bordered on tempestuous. If Vizharen could make good his words then he would need names and in order for her to give those to him, she had to ferret them out. There were only so few she could trust implicitly and one of them stood before her now with all the patience of a harried saint.

"Byram, I have need of you and your daughter. It is not a task I would set lightly to you, but I fear who I can trust." He had been in her service since she had been a babe, caring for her during the great plagues and sicknesses that had swept often through the countryside of the Italian City-States. There was no one she trusted more aside from Lucrezia than Byram.

"What service may we do, Serene One?" He had called her that since she was ten, and anytime its use was brought up she had smiled as she did now. That she carried herself as far more maturely than most her age gave credence to the title which he and his daughter used while in private. Watching as she struggled with her words, he chose then to sit beside her, his eyes ever averted toward the flames of the constantly burning hearth. He had not been allowed to treat her wounds after the Bishop's penance was served and whomever had knew something of medicines for which he was grateful if only to an extent. "I have need of information, Byram but I can not go forth and simply discover it myself. I have need of your discreet ears. I would bid you though to remain on your guard for your presence is not always unnoticed." Not every member of her household thought that having a Moor among them was a good idea. In fact, Lucrezia herself refused his care more than once while in Ana-Catalina's service.

Ever cautious with his thoughts, he mentally counted the ramifications before answering. "If that is your wish, then I shall endeavor to do as you have commanded, Madonna. But what information do you seek?" He need not ask, for it was written clearly in how she pursed her lips gently, the whitening of her knuckles. No one knew the signs of agitation in her more astutely than Byram did. He asked any way because he knew it would only fester if she did not verbalize it. When she regarded him, it was with half seeing eyes that had dully polished steel. "Find out within my house who it is that wishes me or my family harmed. There is something sinister growing within my household and I need to find the root of it. Find me who conspires against me so that they might be dealt with." How they would be dealt with was not something she wished to think on just yet. No, she would leave that Vizharen to met out justice in his own way.

Rising from his seat, he genuflected in the manner of his people while sucking his teeth. What she asked of him was dangerous, and should they be found out it was uncertain as to how that might affect her. Were it just his person he needed to worry about he would not have thought twice, but she did not deserve to have to undertake such gruesome things at such a young age. Such was the way of the Italians though, and he had well learned to keep his opinions to himself on such matters. "All shall be done as you ask, Madonna." Unsure how he might procure such information, he knew that some thought would have to go into the deciding of his own run with intrigue. Before he could leave her however, she stayed him. "Give not what you find to me, but pass it along to Lord Vizharen. It is he who shall see those guilty of any crimes punished. He has ... promised me as much." Names for blood. She would see that he had all that and more, enough to bathe in should he so choose.

"As you will, Madonna. I shall venture to the Den of the Lion and see if he indeed has teeth." No vow could have been taken more seriously than that, and yet she felt no comfort in sending him out into the web that no doubt would capture them all before too long. Sighing as the weight of her thoughts pulled at her she turned then toward the window and wondered not for the first time if in the end it might all be worth it?[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

In the Shadow of the Spider

Long ago he had learned that in order to survive within a household of Christians one must learn to be all but invisible. His life was poised on the finely honed edge of a religious blade so that he was in turn both bane and blessing. For those within the House of deCervillion who had lived from the ministrations of his medicines swore that by the Grace of God he was no Moor. And for those who chose the path of righteousness over intelligence, well ... dead men tell no tales. Through the years of suspicion and caution, there had been only one certainty, and that was his place in life as the Prophet had so deemed it was to see to the physical care of the youngest child of the deCervillion household. Her first breath was taken in his attendance, and her first shattered bone mended by his hand. Were it not for his unobtrusive presence Ana-Catalina might not have lived to see the first blush of maidenhood. He was not an individual with a grasp on his own destiny, but rather inexplicably tied to that of the person of a young girl who seemed to be constantly endangered through no fault of her own. An accident of birth, or perhaps penance in the Prophet's eyes, Byram made no judgement but suffered with humility and grace as best he could. Which given her willful youth was not often and he did struggle at times to understand that her outbursts of temper were not merely ploys for attention but a bid to be unique.

All those years and now he sat across from her sleeping form with fingers steepled and thoughts dark. His expedition on her behalf to garner who might be plotting against her had been successful and those persons involved happily dealt with in painfully grotesque fashion by that man, Vizharen. He did not agree with the madonna's esteem of the man but it was not his place to voice his objections. His place was to see to it that if she were to be harmed that she should have the best of care. It was inevitable that the icy fingers of evil would enclose her but he made sure that whenever such a blight might spread to beat it back with all the skill and knowledge of his forefathers. Vizharen would do as he would in service to his mistress but there was more to this labyrinth than he could have guessed.

The flicker of a sound brought his attention toward the door to Ana-Catalina's chamber and there, like a specter stood the one woman that Byram knew could be counted on. Lucrezia diCampelli had been a formidable woman yet the recent landing in Skye had been unkind and she languished almost daily from an ailment he was sure he could cure were she not stubborn as six mules pulling a cart with no wheels. Her refusal to allow him to attend her brought her each day closer to death and from the gray pallor that colored her countenance he was sure that death gripped her even now as she moved to the heavily hung bed, pushing aside the curtains to check briefly upon the young woman laying supine there. There was a whisper of the woman's robes against the rushes, the brush of a finely boned hand wasted by a sickness that ate the flesh from her bones. "She sleeps peacefully madam. I pray you do not disturb her."

It had been a long day, and an even longer week. This evening Ana-Catalina had returned full of tales of a man from Vigolante who had with him a letter of introduction from her uncle. A Marchese of Italy here in Skye come to suitor a girl some twenty years his junior? Byram thought it stunk foully of the Duke, d'Este's but said nothing while biding all the glowing words of a young girl who had been enchanted by tales of an African sunset. It was at that point he had interjected to inform her that her request of late had been filled and Vizharen had been given the names of some three individuals, one of whom had been in her household were now as she had said, traded for blood. Her face had been ashen but her lips firm when she nodded and bid him remain in her chamber until she slept. It was a long tradition, and one tolerated given he was a physician and as such charged with her person entire. He admired her courage if not her methods.

Startled by the disembodied voice in the dark of the chamber, Lucrezia turned and gazed then toward the embers of the fire. With their abysmal glow she deciphered then the outline of the Moor. Her breath wheezed rather than hissed as she struggled to remain upright. It had taken all of her strength to leave her bed and now she was weary for it again. It seemed as if her soul was slowly being siphoned from her body leaving it a husk, and surely she was near enough to the end to see the future. "I shall not disturb her. I merely wished ... to look on her tonight before I retire." Stiffening as he rose from his place by the fire she turned to face him with all the bravado her carriage could muster given its state.

"You are not well, Donna Lucrezia. I can help you. Please, let me do what I might." His pleas fell upon deaf ears as she all but spat her distaste for his person with the shake of her head but it was only a half hearted gesture. In the shadow, he saw not the pallor of her skin in tones of gray but as if it were silvered. Her hair no longer dull but holding a gilded shine. He had always thought her a handsome woman, one beyond his grasp but not the longing of his heart. Her continued refusal to speak to him of late, to allow him the opportunity to save her shriveled what was left of his heart that might carry a torch for a woman. Gaunt and haunted, in this eclipse of a moment she was still beautiful. Still handsome to his eyes. Capturing her face in his hands, he felt the chill of her skin and despaired anew that their time would never come even as he saw the realization dawn in her eyes.

Filling, her eyes were deep pools simmering with emotion a she shook her head in an effort to tear herself from the warmth of him. He had always been exotic, always a far off land that tempted and intrigued but she had kept herself cloistered like a nun and for what? To coldly demote from life without ever having felt the love a man has for a woman? The bond that a husband might have with his wife? It was ungodly to think herself ever capable of having any love for a man, let alone a Moor but a woman's heart never took such things into account. When she had let her guard down, he had been witty and polite and though she might be older than her charge by only a handful of years her heart and beat a drum like any young maids. But the church dictated that she should be chaste and remain aloof of an infidel such as he and so she had obeyed much to her hearts dismay. So desire was beaten out by purported better judgement and longing replaced with the forced cold of indifference. Now in the late hour of her life she vehemently wished she had taken another path. "There is naught, Byram. If I am not dead in the morning surely you shall find that I no longer breathe by days end on the morrow." It hurt to say as much and to lean into the support of his body but her own was giving out and there was little she could do to refuse. "I feel, so cold. I beg you, see to her. You will not allow anything to happen shall you?" Grasping at the front of his robes, she clutched with what was left of her strength knowing that her words were not in vain.

She was as fragile as a piece of bone left too long in the sun, brittle with skin that felt as if it were no thicker than a piece of Egyptian parchment. Startled by her body's weight he lifted her in an intended gesture of kindness rather than gallantry. In her confused mental state she thought only that this exotic knight had come to rescue her from all the ills and plight of her poorly chosen path. His words were tinged with the heat of some far off place that soothed the cold of her limbs and the troubled beat of her weak heart. When the mattress beneath her sank she felt it not but dreamed still that she was in the arms of the man she had loved from afar like a courtly poem and found no pain now as she sank and sank and sank into the depth of that warmth.

With the last faint gasp of breath, the final rise and fall of her breast Byram found that Lucrezia had finally been taken and with the morning still hours yet away. Kneeling at her bedside, he prayed for her soul as he might not have done for any other Christian. He prayed with a Saracen's skill for trading, demanding that Allah be merciful on the woman he for whom he had unrequited feelings. Hopefully her soul would not languish long in the fires of her God's hell for he had seen in the lingering light of her eyes as it died like a candle slowly snuffed of air that she had loved him in returned if only for a brief moment. It was with the last of his joy that he would remain with her, setting her limbs so that she appeared peaceful and entreating the Lord Chamberlain that Donna Lucrezia was no more. Someone would need to break the news to the madonna and he was loathed for any other to do so but himself.

It was only in the wintry light of the morning that dawned for a once since they had landed, blazingly clear and bright that he spoke with her before even her morning absolutions could be entertained. Her companion and duenna was dead, leaving her without a single confidant or ally that would as close to her as a sister might. Crest fallen in features, she bid him to see to the body of her most faithful servant and go about preparing her body for burial. There would be a mass she decreed with a firmness he had not seen yet in her but knew was there. And there would be a feast in celebration of a woman who stood fast next to her all of her life. It was proper, he told her and a likely tradition his own people would have deemed befitting a woman of Lucrezia's status. Her calm he knew would last only as long as it would take for her to be readied for the day. Soon enough she would ask for a moment's peace for prayer and then the tears would fall. She was a young lady who loathed to show weakness to others and he admired her the restraint.

His task was not a gruesome one, and he undertook it with all the care that a husband might his wife. He saw to it that the ladies of the household bathed her body and dressed it in the finest gown, combed her hair and styled it appropriately and when all was done her body was swathed in a fine cocoon of the sheerest linen. It was while he supervised the diligent scrubbing of her rooms that he came across a familiar bottle, one he himself might have touched a number of times as he concocted any countless number of remedies. He knew for a certain that when taken purely over a period of time the body was laid to waste and sickened before dying. Just as his beloved had.

And he knew of only one other person who might have possessed such knowledge. Yet, he had never foreseen that the roots of evil had been dug so deeply and entrenched so firmly as this. Escaping to his own small chamber, he held the bottle in his hands and wept for the truth that stared him now blatantly in his face.

One way or another his own daughter was a murderer. His perfect desert flower, his divinely named Yasarah was now suspect within the House of deCervillion. Such information was damning on a level that he could not face, not with the new rawness that scraped in his chest like so many hot coals put to his flesh. If he were to divulge such information, it may throw a shadow of culpability onto himself and then what? Was this another ruse of the true conspirator behind the death of the madonna's companion -- a shadow thrown by the spider? He knew it too early a time to tell and vowed to keep Ana-Catalina safe, her person sound, hale and in a single piece. As for his daughter ... there was much he would do to bide his time, to wait as he always had and endeavor to live his life with grace and humility. If only for vengeance's sake.[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

In the Dark


"How dare you to come into my presence and bring with you such a foul air!." The voice rose no less than an octave yet was as keen as a finely honed blade. Where it was thrown, it hit its mark, often with devastating result. At present the mark was a caramel skinned woman whose eyes were heavily lidded and long, almond shaped and as dark as the obsidian carved from the face of Vesuvius. With jaw set stubbornly, she might have been the princess of some hot, exotic land but she was merely the daughter of a court physician and one warmed by the rage still pumping through her blood. Without sating that need for revenge she would continue on as she had. "I? You ask how I might dare when it is you who even now plot against the woman you call, Mistress? What do you think I should get in return for such information? Your head on a pike I would like nothing more to see." Tinged with the heat of the desert, her words fell like the grating sand of a storm along the shoals of rippled dunes. They cut just as equally well as a blade if not better.

Hands clenched with knuckles whitening against the rage and pressure from being forced against the desk, the man's face came into the view of a single candle and it beheld in it such contempt for the woman that inwardly she flinched. "Terenzio was a necessary loss my dear. He was loyal where as I can tell you are not. I cannot account for the affections of all within the household. Had I known that you were making a whore of yourself regularly with him I would have found another way to sway him to our ... cause." It was like being slapped and no sooner were the words released from his lungs and mouth that she lunged, cat like and howling toward him. "I loved him! You destroyed him knowing I loved him! You knew!" Her leap although admirable to a point in his eyes was never finished, his own personal guard, loyal to him and him alone held her as if she were no more than the ragged stuffed doll of a child.

Careful to wait the storm of anger he saw passing in her eyes, he laughed then and it chilled the blood in her veins. Already he knew she would not live beyond the door of this room and felt a certain measure of power as he always did when faced with the possibility of taking life. To those who fell under his hand he was God, he was the Almighty! Seating himself slowly, he looked rich and unaffected by the vile curses she spat. "Of course I knew my dear, but then how was I supposed to get the poison I needed into Donna Lucrezia without anyone else knowing? It was you who supplied it, did you not? It was you who gave it to Isabella to place inside the duenna's food and drink was it not? There is far more evidence stacked against you than there is toward me, because ... there is no evidence against me! I am the manufacturer of evidence, not you. Your pitiful attempt to take the life of the princess will ultimately be your undoing. Your father already suspects you, already hates you for what you have done. His loyalty is to her alone as he thought yours was as well. Now that he is under suspicion that you may not be loyal to Ana-Catalina, it is only a matter of time before he moved against you. By trying to kill her outright, you have endangered a greater number of plans that you are aware of. This we cannot have."

It sank slowly into her, dawning like the cold, cold edge of broken glass sparked by the sun and six times deadlier. That there was a greater conspiracy abroad than only this was not something she could have imagined. If she had, would she have taken the chance and pushed the princess down the stairwell? "How was I to know that there was a man just down the stairs, a man I might add who left a surprisingly angered note of his own for you." She knew of the flambeau and what a stir it's arrival back within the castle had caused. What she did not know was to what extend the man delivering it worked for d'Este's, the Duke of Ferrara. If at all, she thought now in retrospect. "Do you not think that she will not notice my absence if I am dead?" There was a certain comfort she took that the princess no matter how aloof she might have seemed did in fact have a heart as soft as a feather. It was simply buried in the thought that she was down to the bone not as good a person as her brother. She had been raised to think that the taint of her uncle's hideous machinations was within her and that she would turn to treachery easily if she allowed it.

Long fingers stroked against the short beard that masked the pock marks on his skin. He had been handsome once, and light with this love. When the plague had struck, he had suffered nearly dying only to be disgusted with his appearance. The beard was like any other disguise, something to hide what you did not wish others to see. For all the world he was a studious and somewhat unimpressive man who had a head for figures and a keen eye for investments. By all rights he should have been more, but d'Este's was a shrewd man and new to use a man of his talents where they would be suited best to give the most spectacular results. With Terenzio and Lucrezia out of the way there would be no confidante for the young princess. She would have no guidance but her own, and when d'Estes' plan was finally exacted he would have control over one of the most influential women of the European stage. Had her uncle not promised him a province of his own, with knights fee's and tithing from the rural villages? His family's star would rise far higher than it ever thought possible -- but he must keep the heir of Naples safe! Such things like this were an annoyance, a trivial matter that should be handled firmly and with as little fuss as possible. Gauging her words, he gambled on his own skill and cunning. "Take her out to sea and kill her. Let her find her lover at the bottom of the ocean." Fully realizing that she might be useful otherwise, he smiled slowly like a shark that circles its meal. "For one so fair, I think death by loving is fitting, don't you Macario?" Eyes flickered toward the one knight, the Champion within the Madonna's personal guard. That he saw in the man a kindred spirit and a hunger for destruction had been an easy, almost fluid move to cultivate. That the man was as perverse with women as he was with a sword was simply a bonus in his eyes.

Her struggles increased as her heart pounded in her chest. Her sentence was committed but she found no glory in a death like that. Wrenching her arms, kicking her legs she struggled against those that held her. "You will fall! You will fall, Don Marcos! I curse you!" As the volume of her voice increased, he grew agitated, motioning that she should be silenced. It took only a slight cuff to her chin for her to be rendered unconscious and with it all were dismissed. To his clerk, he issued several scratching commands, one of which was to see that a confession was drawn from the physician's daughter of her wrong-doing and that her father should be taken into custody as well until such a time as he was needed or, that he could be 'convinced' that he too was a party to this latest plot against the royal person.

"And send for that damned man, Giovanni! I have word from the Duke for him." He also had news from Naples but would wait for a while before delivering it. Ana-Catalina save for the brief hour or so she spend in Marchese's presence was too grieve stricken to care for anything else that went on within the Castle. How d'Este's had known to pick such a time as to send his niece here while the island was struck by it's own turmoil was something that he considered masterful. No one would think anything of this more disturbing news he held now in his hand. News that left him salivating for more of the egregious events that were to come. "Send for the Bishop, inform him that his Grace, Cardinal Fervante will soon be arriving to give an investiture of the princess. Say nothing to anyone save the Bishop and bring to me, Donna Isabella within the Madonna's household. I would know how she fares."

Once his orders were issued and the halls outside his personal chamber were quiet, he went slowly around the room and extinguished all the candles within, then snuffed the hearth. With his back boldly faced toward the door and his eyes directed out the window he stood in the vast darkness of his room and contemplated if not for once, that his life was a very grand indeed and that none could play this stage with more finesse than he. With a little luck and some good positioning of people, he would hold the heir of Naples in his hand and were her uncle a wise man -- he would marry her to someone loyal. Like himself. It was true that he was once vain, but no sickness could have robbed him of his appetite for a woman, especially one as young as Ana-Catalina, nor as rich, nor as vulnerable.

In the dark, none were more a master than he.[/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

The Fall of Naples[/u]

Under full Papal sail, riven with the seal of the Holy See a ship came into view of the main port of Turas Lan. Capital City she might have been, but aboard that ship a man who thought himself the hand of the Pope stood on the fore deck with robes of scarlet billowing. Around him were the guards of the Vatican, trained to a hair and faithful unto death in service of their Lord. What they carried with them was a dour air of loss and the shifting of power in Italy. A coup had been made possible with the gold of a treacherous man and the blood of a noble line. Within the hold of the ship, he carried the seal of the House of deCervillion, and the royal jewels of Naples. It would take half a day or more for the tides to be right for the grand vessel to dock, and yet another half day for word to arrive within the palace. Cardinal Fervante had arrived.

"What mean you all is lost to us?" Confusion was the order of the day, no seemed more the order of the past two months since she had landed in Skye. Yulemas was upon them, and with the Christian rite of the birth of their Lord and Savior there had been nothing but death and despair within her household. It was enough to quietly drive a young woman half mad from the grief. It still stabbed at her late into the night, or early in the day that she was without the one woman who had seen her raised from a baby when she was no more than a girl herself! Beloved Lucrezia was dead, her body sealed within a fine coffin of wood that was coated in pitch to keep out air so that her body might be returned to their beloved Naples and buried. Before Ana-Catalina had allowed her to be shut away forever within that little box, a lock of hair had been cut and placed within a carefully crafted locket that she wore now always like a symbol. Were it not for Lucrezia's often oppressive hand no doubt she would have turned toward a darker path of intrigue like her uncle. That necklace was like a talisman and whenever deeper thought struck her, she clutched at it until the feeling past. Now was not the time to seek revenge, she would tell herself. If only the other players within this grand game could have had such higher thoughts.

"My lady, there is a great matter that has occurred within your kingdom that needs now your attention." Don Marcos spoke calmly, quietly in a way that was meant to soothe yet only irritated her further. He spoke in utter riddles! "What mean you, mykingdom? Naples is for Alonso, you know this!" Though the words tripped from her chest and lips, she found only a greater well of despair when looking into the grave countenance of her Chamberlain. That she had already felt numb might have provided some comfort for this latest blow to her emotions, her mind but that shield was cracked and worn in places so that the anguish stabbing her now was felt to her very core. Pale and stone faced, with hands gripped against the rests of her chair she turned her gaze from her Chamberlain and spoke with a voice that sounded resoundingly like her uncles. "Speak clearly. I grow weary of this talk-about."

Were he a man of only a single thought at once he would have admired the sheer determination he saw in her features, the glow of those gray eyes so like moonlight and the firm cast of lips that went white only at the edges. She was a woman-child possessed of a great capacity for grief and he relished in causing it. Seeing how it flowed over her features and opened her up further to his own agenda. In a rather theatric display he kneeled then before her, placing his right hand over his heart. Bowing his head, he gave the news he knew would turn the course of his own fortunes. "The King of Naples has succumbed to his illness. While on their way to in turn the body of your late father, the carriage that held them was besieged by who believe to have been the Spanish. The life of your mother and brother have been taken, leaving you the heir of Naples. Cardinal Fervante has come with direct orders from the Pope himself to see to your investiture of state as Queen of Naples in name only. Since you are not yet reached of your majority and a woman you cannot rule outright. Your uncle has already established that Naples shall be ruled through him, as your Regent until such a time as you marry. Long live the Queen." In the silence that followed, all those who had been struck by the news recovered with alacrity, bowing deeply before the silent Ana-Catalina who still had yet to respond to their litany.

Naples had fallen? How can this be that the Spanish would kill my mother, my brother? Around and around in her head flew the myraid of scenarios that would bring about such an end in one seemingly fell stroke of hand. When she had left Italy her brother was to be married, her father only slightly ill and her mother a woman of an iron will. With such loss, how did a body overcome their grief? And with such grief, how did one find room for laughter and light in their heart? Had there ever been laughter and light? Was she to spend the whole of her life in such ... darkened emotion? Dazedly, she looked at those gathered within her suite of rooms and saw that they were all bowed, all prostrate before the figure of their new Queen who was not yet a woman of her majority. How could it be that she should lead a nation? No, not she ... her uncle. That Naples would fall beneath the House of d'Este's, the House of Ferrara and Modena and Reggio. Of Bologna and Parma! All that stood between the whole of Italy being in his grasp was the Papal State and Rome. Were those to fall under his demise then all would bow to d'Este's.

Within her chest her heart clutched hard until she was sure it was so tightly clenched that it would never beat again. Slowly but surely her uncle had exacted all that he had ever wished. As his heir and her uncle, he had the right to oversee her crown until she married and had the shelter of her husband's name and family to rule her people in Naples. Until she produced an heir herself, that throne would be threatened and with it ... the security of those people. It was a crux that could not be fought around no matter how she saw it. Now the choice of her husband would surely not be her own with her uncle acting as her Regent and with her hand being even more of a prize it meant that she could be shipped off to any number of foreign shores.

Voice calm and low, she addressed her household with careful words. "I am not yet Queen, and shall remain so until the investiture is complete. Before such a time, a mass should be said for the person of my Father, the King and his wife, my mother the Queen and my brother, the Prince. Know that should I hear that I am addressed by other than the title of princess before the mass is said, and before the investiture complete that those persons shall be removed from my company and sent to the ship. Don Marcos, a meeting between my household and that of the Duke and Duchess of Skye should be arranged. They should know that ... the Pope has cometh to Skye." At least, in the form of a Cardinal. She doubted highly that any man of the cloth so highly titled had ever landed foot here.

"All shall be as you command, Madonna. Your uncle has already sent word the Duke of Skye and the Pope has demanded that he make a journey to Rome for some business between them. Perhaps if you called upon the Duchess?" Don Marcos knew for a surety that Aberdeen had been beckoned by the Holy See. It was only a matter of 'if' and 'when' he would depart. Seeing that she only nodded wearily he rose and left her presence.

It wasn't until later that he wore a smile in private. The Fall of Naples was complete.[/font][/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

Hand of Fate[/u]

All she had commanded had come to fruition, with the servants and guards only speaking to her by the title of Princess. Mass was said in honor of her father and mother, and of her brother who would have been king had he lived. The days that followed were full of preparations for the landing of Cardinal Fervante. What came as a small shock to her was when the Cardinal was brought into her presence to announce that he would not be officiating her coronation but that the Pope himself was at that moment underway to do so himself. Fervante was a wizened man of some advanced years with rheumy blue eyes that were congealed so that he had to use a cane and the assistance of another's arm to go about. "It is rather that I should say the words of grace over the graves of your lady mother and your brother, the Prince." His voice was soft, the smoke and incense that came with a lifetime of service to the Lord God. Ana-Catalina could have listened for hours to the stories of the bible come to life from that voice, it held her attention that a lifetime like his could make it mellow and yet invigorated with the fervor of a man faithful but without the bloodlust that came from the Crusades. "My Lord Cardinal, it would be an honor to me if you would serve as the officiate for their mass. Thank you." Humbled by the show of emotion within the young woman who would be Queen of Naples, the Cardinal left her with promises that all would be well, and that she need only half faith in the Lord. He would see her through.

Ana-Catalina wondered if perhaps it was more the Hand of God, than the heart of him that was allowing the latest events to slowly unfurl like a tapestry whose treads had been plucked. Still, she could not resist wondering if there was something more to this than merely God's will being done. Byram, her personal physician and as of late mentor had begun to speak candidly about the Hand of Fate, a force to be reckoned with like God himself, but more mysterious and elusive. He said it was perhaps the more feminine aspect of God's personality. Though it was not part of his belief system, and he stressed that to her, it still gave her room to think and that was perhaps the whole point of the exercise. Byram needed Ana-Catalina to be able to think for herself, to be able to judge those around her for who they were not what their title represented. He wanted her to know of the possibility that even those born without a title could be noble in their own right, whether they were mere scribes or in this case ... men of the cloth. As they sat in the solar of her apartments with the grand table top awash with books and parchment, with ink and quill and with the seal of her homeland at the ready Ana-Catalina was poised to become a great figurehead even if she was still learning the theology and philosophy of the world. An apt pupil, Byram often marveled at her voracity for the written word, and not just those of the scholars of Christ, but of any religion! She was a young woman far ahead of her time in thinking, even if she said that studying such things was only necessary to sate her curiosity of the world and to better understand those who would call upon her court in the future. Byram knew better, and he suspected that this recent suitor of hers, the Marchese of Vigolante did as well. So desperate to be a part of the world, to do and see and become was Ana-Catalina that she opened herself up to anyone who knew anything of adventure.

They waited until Sunday, a proper day for a proper funerary mass and it was said in hollowed Latin words that breeched the walls the cathedral and stung straight into her heart. Though there were not bodies, there were empty caskets which she had covered with the emblems of Naples, and the Cross-Arms of Ferrara. Her mother had been a d'Este's and as such, the family names would be honored equally. It was traditional the long intonations of their titles, of their names and of the dates they were born as well as a lengthy dissertation of their respective achievements. Kneeling before the great alter, Ana-Catalina remained steadfast in her prayers for the souls of her mother, her brother and her father. She begged God that he give her guidance when ruling her people and that he keep her safe from the machinations of her uncle, though she was certain that when it came to that part of the prayer, God had somewhat of a hearing problem. The sun was high, nearing the noon hour of the day when the mass broke and the cathedral's walls no longer resonated with the sounds of the holy word. From there, Ana-Catalina sat over a grand feast in the name of her brother especially, where all his favored dishes were served. It was somber, more so than she had thought possible for a meal and in the end she left it feeling far more depressed than when she had awoken earlier in the day. Had her brother been at the luncheon there would have been music and spirited dancing, bawdy talk and prose said about her beauty. It was one of the hardest things for her heart to begin to understand that from that day forward there would no longer be that light shining within her, for he was that light and now with his death it was extinguished.

It was not until some three days after the mass that her physician came to her again with news regarding those who might indeed be plotting for her downfall. It came as a small surprise to her that her Chamberlain was pulling some of the strings within that tapestry that wound itself around her like the coil of a snake. Nor was she surprised to hear that her uncle had his own affairs well in order when it came to her ascension to the throne. "Don d'Ercole does not understand the scope of my uncle's will. He thinks himself a man of power, but that will change if my uncle were to know of his scheming. See to it, my Lord Physician. We can not take any undo caution now." Using the royal plural was new to her, and it was as foreign as the silky dialect that Byram used some times when lulling her to sleep. But it was a part of this new station she would hold in life, so like all other things she would bear the burden with a somber expression, eyes so like the light of the moon that were steady and will of iron. Her fears and worries she would hide away, and her trembling she would hold back until she was alone and there was no one to see her shake, no one to hear her cry and absolutely no one to hear how she doubted herself. A Queen is always a Queen when in public. In private, she is a woman just as any other. It was a phrase her mother had used often in her youth, and she understood it now that she was straddling that delicate chasm.

In fifteen days the dice would be rolled by the Hand of Fate, and the world would look to a small island off the coast of Scotland as the new Queen of Naples was crowned. Ana-Catalina wondered if ever the pain she felt in her chest would ease, if ever the fears would abate and if somehow by some strange twist of those meddling hands ... if she might find love?[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Death Clock[/u]

A week or more and the Pope would be in Skye, along with the person of His Grace, the Duke of Ferrara, Reggio, Modena, Lord of Bologna and Parma. Defender of the Faith and Regent-Elect of Naples. Knowing that his end game was so near, Marcos Antonia d'Ercole smiled as he looked out over the dreary island morning, stifling the beginnings of a laugh if only through the sheer force of his own will. Everything was in place for his lord's arrival and he had but to keep up the charade of being the concerned Chamberlain for a few days more. And then ... then he would be lay out his concerns to the Duke regarding his niece's suitors and how they did not seem to fall into line with his ideal candidate for a husband. Why, none of them would be as loyal to the d'Este's family as he had been, could they? And none of them were Italian, and he didn't think that for a second that this upstart, Marchese of Vigolante was the genuine article either. If such were the case, he would ease the leather from his chair. What he could not understand though was why Alphonse had sent Don Giovanni in the first place? His holdings were obscure to be sure, but lucrative if he were to believe the reports of his spies. That he was a man of means said little of his character, and given that he had not attended a function within any of the Italian courts made d'Ercole's suspicions of this Giovanni rise.

Stroking at his shortened beard, he mentally waved aside that of the Marchese and resorted instead to debating just what was to be done about the Lady St. Laurence. She had been a ghost until now in his life, and he was quite happy to contend with her in such a capacity. But now she was here, in Skye acting as an agent supposedly for the Crown of Avaria? Or was she truly employed by the Duke here? Although he knew her to be skillful, he had not anticipated that she would actually align herself with any one theater in all of Europe. Considering it only a minor miscalculation on his part, he let his mind wander over the possibility of revenge. The fact that she had poisoned him, or nearly done so just a few nights past boiled the blood in his veins and prompted no few dreams of her demise by his hands. A pity really when she was such a beauty, but hers was the deceptive sort and he very well couldn't see himself shackled to a woman who may or may not stab him in the back. Metaphorically or literally. He knew of a man, a friend and fellow disciple though within the Holy Father's routine that might be able to dispense with this ... minor nuisance. Vast was the network of spies, insurmountable was the number of people who owed and owed well to the grace of his master. That Marcos borrowed against it had never come to ill, and if he could garner somewhat more for his lord, then in the end it would be worth it. Of course he had not always worked for d'Este's, Duke of Ferrara. Once upon a time he had been an avid pupil of another school, one hidden beneath the cloak-and-dagger secrecy of the Holy Church.

From the windows that were grayed and dreary toward the ornately carved desk of his station, he beamed happily at the stacks of parchment, the finely wrought wells of ink and the chain of his office nestled amidst his life's work. For this was his life's greatest work and he would allow none to spoil it. Lady St. Laurence would be dealt with in due time, but for this ... Giovanni, he would send a better message. One that would demand he either answer to d'Este's or cease to exist. Of course, that the Principessa was fond of him would be a problem. She spoke daily of his visits, with her somber features and those witches' eyes that were deep and liquid, a shimmer of the moon through a gauzy haze of clouds. Shuddering at the vision of them, half lidded and slumberous the Chamberlain of the Household gently caressed the links of the chain. Though they were cold now, he knew that they would heat with his touch, against his skin and he wondered not for the first time if his would-be mistress might be the same? Stealing himself the chain was grabbed harshly and draped elegantly over his shoulders. Adjusting it so that the seal of his office shone brightly, he swept from his apartments for those of Ana-Catalina's only to find that she had taken another of her nightly ventures beyond the lush apartments that the Duke and Duchess had provided her.

Suppressing a growl of annoyance, he shifted as the rustle of skirts shot into his hearing. There in the opened doorway of her bedchamber stood the person of her maid, Isabella. Golden hair, and sly-eyes, she was a woman who no doubt thought herself quite cunning. Marcos knew her for the whore she was, and knew well that her only son was now in the employ the Bishop of Rieti and it was he who bid the slut to do his business. Marcos could well understand the bid for power, but using cheap labor such as her seemed a waste. "Where is she?" He need not specify who 'she' was, since he never entered the premises unless there was business with the Principessa to see to. Cat like, and conspiratorial Isabella moved toward the Chamberlain with a subtle turn of hip that became exaggerated only when she needed it to be. "Her Grace is about the halls my Lord. She said she needed a few moments of her own and decided to give herself air. Macario said he would see to her, but the Principessa stayed him. She mourns still, I think. A tragic figure, don't you agree?" Though her eyes glowed with something other than pity for her young mistress's emotional state, her voice did reflect a certain amount of apprehension at her being alone.

Confronted by so forward an invitation, d'Ercole thought that though she worked for Rieti he might also use her to his own means. "Know you the man, Giovanni?" When she nodded and smiled coyly, he continued, but while stroking the soft crest of her cheek. "When next he comes to see her, send him away. I do not believe he has good intentions for Her Grace. When the Duke arrives, we shall see what we shall see about his person." Her breath was hot against the palm of his hand as he brushed the pad of his thumb over her lips. When she drew another shuddering breath, he all but crowed. "I know him by another name, my Lord. I met him once, before his introduction into the Principessa's court. Kendrick Seithfed was the name by which he went. He was quite ... embolden when I met him." And had spent the night in his bed, though she was not telling any tells that were not ask to be told.

It was cold, but then whenever he felt vindication and the smugness of superior skill he always felt a little cold. Detached and perhaps just slightly better than everyone else. It was like a drug to him, that feeling. When he thought about it, that was how power felt. "Seithfed, eh? How interesting. Thank you my dear, that shall no doubt be quite promising information. Keep such to yourself. Later, join in my apartments. I will ... reward you for your work." Of course, she might not live through the night of it, but he would endeavor to enjoy himself in any right. After all, he had served under more than one master in his lifetime.

When finally he was able to slip from the apartments of the princess, he went again to his own and debated at this late hour whether or not he should undertake yet another endeavor. Upon spying the mark of the water clock there on the mantle of his hearth he was decided. There was only so much time left in that little clock as the hours ticked past. Of course, if one knew that their death was potentially eminent then there was no end to what one might do to save themselves. As the hiss of the match touched to the wick of the candle on his desk he marveled once more that by something so simple as the stroke of the death clock -- world's could change.

In the end, he wished to be remembered as one who helped change that world. For his master the Duke, for his fellow students of the Master himself. And of course, for Holy God."Let us see what we shall see of the field and the forest, eh? Perhaps a message into the ether might garner more of a response from the Lady St. Laurence. And with the identity of Giovanni all but assured, perhaps this information will ... persuade d'Este's to consider my suit as a far better choice..." He could only laugh as he eased himself into the fur lined chair. He would revert to the ways he had learned long before he knew of the Duke's grace. He would mark well the things of the past he had put always like a child's toy. After all, it wasn't often one heard the strike of the Death Clock.[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Smoke and Mirrors[/u]

"You are, I think to quick in your judgement Marcos. I expect better of you." Beneath the hiss of a quill against parchment the clear, concise voice of the Duke of Ferrara, Alphonso d'Este's rose but no more above the octave than what was necessary to be heard. He need not shout to have his opinion strike home within the heart of his enemies, or for that matter those that were considered an ally. Letting the silence remain for a moment longer, his breath was relaxed as it was exhaled, a quiet sound of impatience but also of absolution for the man who stood before him. He was a proud man, of some background with many talents that had become more and more useful over the years. That the Church saw men like him as somewhat of a taint to this sordid history, Alphonse thought nothing of. In the end God would be the judge of them all, and since he was a man who cared little for the reputation of his soul, he worried not. After all, he had long courted the devil and was content that a place in the deepest parts of hell was waiting for him. Which was why, he endeavored to live for as long as was possible through fair means or foul.

Bowing deeply with his head bare save for the thick shock of dark hair that fell skillfully over the collar of his jacket, he hid his irritation with a mask of civility and humility. "Your Grace, it is just that this man whom you have sent is not someone I think should be placed at all near the person of your niece. He comes bearing a letter of introduction, a letter I myself knew nothing of and states he is the Marchese of Vigolante de Parma. Certainly you can see how unsettling it is for me to have found out that he goes by another alias and has courted the company of new few ladies who have recently turned up to be dead." Relative to Alphonso's thoughts, Marcos knew he was aware of the happenings within the forest. That he chose not to act on them to his advantage was certainly his own business and something Marcos would never have questioned. Of course the reason those women came up dead could be called into suspicion later, for now he would bide his time and his own counsel.

Gray eyes narrowed, steel honed over the years by deceit and subterfuge. Knowing well the signs of a falsehood had stood him in good stead these past four and a half decades and he was not about to discount his own intuition of the man before him. Gottschalk and his insufferable pupils were spread wide and came in a variety of forms. Though he did not present the picture of a mercurial and dangerous man, Alphonso knew that Marcos was in fact a member of that estranged and dangerous family. Steepling the reedy length of his fingers, he tapped the pads of them briefly together before settling comfortably back against his chair. "I know well of whom you speak, Marcos. He is known to me by that name and by others. The title given to him was conferred at the behest of the Pope and I did so with as much grace as was possible given the situation. Because of that alone he is a man who still lives and breathes. You will recall that I asked of him only that he enter his service unto me in whatever capacity that I was needful of. Rather than give me his fealty, he chose to run away. It was not by luck alone that I was able to find him and to ... persuade him of the suit toward my niece. In the end, he will do as he has done before -- run away. I have need of her married, but certainly not to the likes of him. Nor you." Now, now came the sharpest and deepest cut he would need to make so that Marcos new well who was the master here and who was the servant.

Keeping the sneer from his face was a grim task, yet he set to it as he did with all things. Whole heartedly. "Your Grace will make the most suitable match for her of course. I meant no disrespect nor criticism. But might I inquire as to why I am not suitable? I have given you my oath, and have proven myself a man worthy of your respect if not esteem for all that I have undertaken in your name." Surely Alphonse would see that he was not a man to be trifled with, yet he was one willing to be under the purview of another. When the Duke leaned forward, there was a glimmer of hope, and Alphonse noted well that he saw it in the depth of his servants dark eyes. That glitter of ambition that needed to be kept leashed, lest it turn back and maul the hand that fed it. "Perhaps ... you are right. You have long been in my service, and have done many a deed others would have shrank from. Yet tell me, Marcos how you will alleviate me of the situation that even now brews just from my doorstep? Have the Spanish been fully implicated in the death of Maria-Catalina, my dearest and recently departed sister? And what of the whelp she spawned? Has proof to the positive been found of my nephews demise? Then lastly, there is the matter of a woman with whom you have had some relation who has come to my attention in the Duke's court. Lady St. Laurence?" Though he knew it more than enough to squelch any thoughts that Marcos might indeed be a viable candidate for his niece's hand, he let all that lay out before them as if they were playing cards. "When you have brought me what I need in order to solidify my power in Naples, then ... then I will give you Ana-Catalina. Until then, it is for me alone to decide the wretch's fate. Do I make myself clear?"

A thousand thoughts ran rampant through his mind. If the Duke of Ferrara needed further proof that the Spanish were indeed the culprits behind the princess's recent rise in status then there was also the question as to whether or not there were other parties involved. That he needed also further proof his nephews body only settled like a warm, sweet boon against his blackened heart. If certain rumors of the Prince's demise were false, and that he lived still in hiding then it was for a certain that his own uncle had been the manufacturer of his death. Marcos need only a sliver, a shred of evidence and he would be able to gain the upper hand over Alphonse. Hiding his thoughts he gave Alphonse the impression that he was any but a dutiful servant. Sketching a bow, he straightened with shoulders squared. As if he were being sent off once more as the favored courier for his master's pleasure. "As you will, Your Grace. I shall endeavor to undertake all you have asked once again. When all is secured, I look forward to the reward."

Dismissing Marcos, Alphonse eased himself form his chair with the spry step of a man much younger than his years implied. At this very moment, Marcos was no doubt taking the bait he had so liberally sprinkled before him, and would seek to ferret out the possibly of his own implication in the fall of the House of de Cervillion. That he would find nothing of the sort, Alphonse already knew. And that his niece would never marry the likes of him was a given. But he enjoyed watching those who thought themselves a force to be reckoned with spin themselves into their own graves.

Calling upon his own chamberlain, he thought long and hard before issuing his next orders. "Bring him here. And tell my niece that she will dance attendance this evening, for supper with me. We have much to discuss, her and I." Turning his back, he looked into the flames of the candle along the mantle and slipped into thought.

After all, there were times when power was nothing more than an elaborate illusion. When those who sought to control the world were little better than smoke and mirrors.[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Terms[/u]

Though he had ordered it, Alphonse d'Este's the Duke of Ferrara, Modena and Reggio, Lord of Parma and Bologne knew well that his quarry would be asked in terms more suited to a visiting dignitary than that of an itinerant sea-captain. His valet had laid out his clothing, and the deep blue suited the violently silver shock of hair and equally mercurial colored eyes. At his finger winked not only the seal of Ferrara, but had the new addition of Regent of Naples added. That he would now have control over most of the body politic of Italy suited well his mind, but there was still this last nagging detail to be seen to. Giovanni, Seithfed or by whatever other names he went by had to be made to understand that it would certainly be respectable if he made himself scarce after his marriage to Ana-Catalina. With that in mind, and a assured sense that all would go as he had planned, he stepped from the privacy of his bedchamber to find that the solar of his suite of rooms was suitable dressed for dinner as well. There were fragrant candles about, and the last dried fruits of summer were delicately arranged along with wedges of cheese, crusts of bread and the minced meats he favored. And there was the wine! Elegant and subtly flavored, he enjoyed the scent of it as much as the body. "Is he here?" Asking of his staff, his impatience simmered as only those in power knew how to allow it to reflect on those around them. When given a hesitant nod, he waved the servants off. "Then send him in and leave us." Just as the doorway was opened to Giovanni's presence, he smiled coldly while pouring wine into a goblet. "And make sure that my niece is ready for supper. I should hate to miss her company." His tone was congenial but there was no denying the contempt he held for her in it.

He was not surprised when the summons arrived, nor at its cordiality. The only rancor in his relations with any of the Italians was not with Ferrara himself, but Marcos d'Ercole. Even that was not enough to form an immovable opinion. He had learned many of the ways of the world from the man, whom he had considered somewhat of a distant uncle. When he had arrived in Rome, his friends had been bought and paid for, but only one seemed to take such keen interest in him. It suited their relationship well, until requests were made that he could not fulfill, and news arrived that could not be ignored. He quietly tossed shirts, breeches, and a few personal items into a satchel and quietly made his leave of Parma. He did not look back upon that life with anger, nor regret, simply as the closing of a chapter in his life. He'd said greater goodbyes before, and after a lifetime of servitude to causes he did not believe in, was relieved at the vast freedoms opening up before him. He had not, in fact, given much thought at all to his former mentor until the letter requesting his assistance arrived. And ever since, though he tried crawling his way out, he had been busy digging himself deeper and deeper into intrigues. He relinquished to the summons, and to his curiosity. He took care in dressing, though really, for a man accustomed to wearing black, there wasn't much to do in the way of coordination. Black, like other rich hues, was the color of wealth. Prone to fading and discoloring, it was not a color seen upon the less fortunate members of society. He followed the directions to His Grace's suite of rooms, paused before entering, and then flowed through the doors in all the good charm that man might remember of him. The smile was warm, though it showed no teeth, and when he swept a bow, it was as precise as a soldier's, as practiced as the politician's. He was only momentarily concerned that if he took his eyes off Ferrara, he might lose his head, but he rose again unscathed.

And his thoughts had they been voiced in levity or seriousness would have no doubt have been correct. Alphonse was not a man who took the snub of others lightly, and Giovanni's taking leave of Parma before he was given permission to was certainly still a snub in his eyes, although it would serve a greater purpose now. Pouring a second glass, he held it out toward the bowed figure. "Rise, my lord Giovanni and drink with me." When the glass past from his hands to that of Giovanni's he drank deeply from his own glass. Refreshed with the resounding tones of oak on his tongue he moved to take a seat near the hearth that crackled and hissed, then motioned for Giovanni to do the same. For a moment or two he let the silence between them build as he regarded the man with eyes that were gray like his nieces, but without the spark of innocence hers still possessed. "They tell me that you are favored among my nieces suitors. She does not seem to inquire often over the German, or Russian men I've sent to her, but you ... " Drinking again, he smiled and it was full of warmth and good cheer. "I should have known that only an Italian would suit, eh?" He would wait only so long as it would take the man to wet his throat before continuing. "She is a biddable girl, and I am told passably intelligent, able to converse with relatively pleasant discourse. She is ... handsome I am assured. But what do you think?" Emphasizing that he wished Giovanni's opinion would no doubt leave open the door for anything that he did not say, but that his body gave away. Or so that was what Alphonse hoped.

If Seithfed had believed all was well between them, he deserved whatever the man had planned. He did not, but he was also learned enough to keep such suspicions silent. They were nevertheless present; he could see it in the Duke's posture, the slight inflection in his voice that he did not recognize. He had chosen rightly to leave as quietly as he had. After all, he had not ever believed he would return. His life was his own when that treaty arrived in his hands, and he had no compunctions of burning rickety old bridges behind him. Righteous or no, his vow to Ana-Catalina meant he must at least return cordiality. He accepted the cup and drank well, having observed both glasses poured from the same jug. They moved to the fire, and after his lord was seated, he took his own place in a winged chair, holding the cup of wine so that firelight just glinted across the clear rim of the liquid. Alphonse's silence was not one of intimidation, but of summing up a man who had once been familiar. He knew, because he felt the same way. Seithfed had not changed, no matter the name he carried. He still whored in the local taverns, kept company with married women, drank to excess, and had as many illicit business dealings as there were customers willing to keep him employed. Such behavior was not suitable for an Italian gentleman, but was easily overlooked, when other lords' foibles were so much more worthy of condemnation. "Ah, she has a very vivid imagination, Your Grace. Her world is a colorful one, despite her obvious boundaries." He would not call Ana-Catalina biddable, by any stretch, but she was not as rebellious as some daughters he had been introduced to once upon a time. "She is a credit to you, Your Grace, I pray you see this." He spoke truth without committing himself to her, nor demanding one of him. He had, after all, been trained by a master of the art.

It was not the wine that warmed his insides, but the lack of commitment that came from the man who sat across from him. He was several years his niece's senior yet he overlooked the fact as he did all the others, including his peculiarities."A vivid imagination? I had not heard that description of her, but indeed I shall avail myself to ask her this evening." Eased against the cushions of his chair he marked well that as he was doing, so was Giovanni. They were both playing their hands close to the vest, and he wondered if perhaps there was more beneath the rumors and whispers he had heard. "One need keep a young woman of her stature closely reigned, lest she become the object of court gossip. We praise virtue in our women. Not every court can say thus." If he implied anything of the strong will natured of some of the women of Skye, he deflected it waving his hand as if he meant elsewhere in the world. "Ah yes, a credit. Unfortunately, she is young yet still to lead the people of Naples but I am sure that with time she will learn all that is necessary to be a Queen." Not that she would ever rule in her own right. Setting his goblet aside, he fixed his gaze once more on Giovanni, the polished steel surface of it unblinking. "Tell me of this ... vivid imagination of hers. I would know your thoughts on it, and whether or not I should be concerned for her mental state." He played the burdened uncle, caring and concerned, but only so that it could be believed. Mixed in with it were the tones of a man who implied that women were the inferior sex no matter their station.

He laughed richly at her uncle's concern, though there was no trace of mockery in his eyes. "I hope all young women such as she have some shade of an imagination, Your Grace. I am certain it is nothing approaching impropriety, just that she has a healthy appetite for knowledge that would hardly harm her prospects. As I said, a credit." He canted his head as he listened to the Duke, nodding on occasion. "She does what she is told that she might bring glory to her house, and in her, I see a keen interest in doing what is expected of her." It was not quite a lie, but neither was it a complete truth. It fit the image Ana-Catalina presented. "Possibly, should you wish to keep her mind occupied with matters of the household rather than the affairs of the world, it would be prudent to involve her with other ladies of the castle. She may learn from them, and true, it is a known practice in Western Europe not to cloister their women as they await suitable husbands. The education they receive in managing a household will prove invaluable." The Duke's answer would be very telling, Seithfed believed. One way or the other, it gave him an idea of the man's intentions. "It is not the way of Italian courts," he added, after staring into his cup for a moment, contemplating the contents. "But I believe a flighty young woman might find some discipline in the company of her peers."

The company of her peers. It rang in his mind as he too contemplated the ramifications of what Giovanni told him. That he had implied in however minor a fashion that his niece might be flighty did bode well his plans. "You speak in plain terms that I think might benefit my niece. If she lacks discipline within her household no doubt then I should also counsel her Chamberlain." Which might bode well for Marcos should he prove himself on such a field. But there was still the matter that his niece was seen as a caged bird. He expected that with the loss of her duenna, the loss of other allies she might rebel and give him cause to displace her. Now he saw that he needed to take more overt action to see to the end of it. Drawing his lips over his teeth, he forgot himself a moment enough to smile in a way that was anything but friendly toward the thought of his niece. Pointing toward Giovanni, he nodded. "I believe you in the right, Sir, and shall see to it that she spends more time with the ladies of the court here. It might prove well given the Pope will be declaring Skye a Sovereign Isle unto itself. She should learn the habits of the Duchess first hand." Which of course meant that a more willful Ana-Catalina was a more open target. "I am not so old that I cannot learn of new ways of thinking. I must say though, it a damned insult to hear that the Spanish are here given the treachery they cause." His sister and nephew were reportedly killed off by the Spanish, but who was he to say that was truth?

"She does not lack discipline, merely challenge," Seithfed corrected very lightly, downing the last of his wine. "Your Grace, I know not what happens in women's heads, but I am almost certain were I sentenced to stare at walls the day long, I might qualify as flighty myself." He smiled, wanly. The Duke was plotting something, unwilling as he seemed to divulge any information other than what Seithfed gave him, and planting ideas in what was certainly not casual discussion. He would play the game, however, reaching for the jug of wine and first offering the Duke and then filling his own glass once again. "The security within the Duchess's contingent is notably higher than one might expect. No doubt, your niece will be quite safe. I would not worry too much in her regards." True safety, if Ana-Catalina was to find any, would come from a suitable marriage that would take her far from the girl's current court. He could trust none but himself in this regard, for if others made demands of Ana-Catalina, there was no way she could afford to meet them when her uncle so easily outmatched her. Seithfed, however, was notorious for needing nothing but what his own hands and charm gained him. He was willful and independent, two traits that had taken long enough to develop, but seemed here to stay. "It is a shame, indeed, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend, no? Skye has her share of battles to fight, and we may re-shuffle this deck when all is finished. I assure you, there will be time for such accusations."

His gaze narrowed perceptibly, yet it remained so for only a moment and no longer. "I should think being the figurehead of a nation should be quite the challenge. Yet if she is unready for such then she should remain as far those responsibilities as until such a time that she demonstrates her ability to ... be that figurehead." He laid a single card onto the table then, inferring that his niece would not rule but merely be the face to the people over whom he ruled. When offered a renewed glass, he nodded and leaned forward for the refill. "I am told you have not returned to Vigolante for some time. Tell me, would you think to do so any time soon?" He needed to know if Giovanni would run, or if there was the slightest chance that he would endeavor to be the Knight In Shining Armor. He was loathed to kill men like that but in the end one was just as bright and shiny as the next, weren't they? Easing back to prior position in the chair, he debated asking Giovanni outright and settled for silence. "I should be blunt. My niece needs to marry, and I think you a man suitable for the position of her husband if only you are to return to Italy. The Pope considers it a good match given his prior business with you, and I must concede to his Holiness in this." No doubt if the Pope thought to thwart Alphonse he was already positioning himself so that he was in turn ... outwitted.

"That I am come to Skye itself should show that I am a man of my word, and a friend to the Duke and Duchess. Otherwise, my niece would have never left Ferrara's holdings." In truth had he his own way, she would never lived beyond the cradle but Fate had left him a barren wife to whom he was still married because he needed the alliance to Bologna and Parma. His hold over Naples was still tenuous until his niece crowned, his regency confirmed and the Pope restored to Rome where he belonged. Holding the goblet between his hands, he kept his eyes down cast so that the machinations within them could not be seen. "I am a maker of men, Giovanni. You know this, you know the extend of my grasp. I will not allow an island off the coast of Scotland to interfere with my business in England, nor abroad in the other theaters of Europe. Here me plainly when I say that an allegiance to me, sworn fealty to me is one of the few options you have." He did not like the fact that Giovanni was cagey, and there was a hint of an air around him that he could not ferret out. There was something altogether missing from the puzzle the man presented.

That certainly gave him a bit to chew over. He listened very carefully to the man's choice in wording. He pondered his response for several long moments of silence. He knew his motivations were not clear, and that would upset a man like Ferrara, who must have all his chess pieces in all their proper places before making a move. Yet something in him dared to risk a pawn, his hand wavering over the piece as he considered his next move. He did not touch it, but Seithfed could see the moment in his opponent's eyes in which he gave it serious thought. "I shall be equally blunt, Your Grace. Until your letter arrived, I had no intention of ever returning to Vigolante. That is not to say I was unpleased with the favor you showed me, but that I needed more than Vigolante offered. When you sent the letter of recommendation, I first believed maneuvered into a situation of which I could not escape. I courted your niece as you instructed, and have discovered that it would be a fortuitous match. We are not disagreeable in temperament, and with what elevation of income and status will be inevitably attached to the union, I may be as active or as inactive as Your Grace requires." He could, in a word, disappear. He had in the past, for far less tangible reasons. "Need you hear my oath again, one sworn before His Holiness and God on high?" He remembered the occasion. It was just a few days after his arrival in Rome, and of the few words he knew in Italian, "I do" had suited him immeasurably well. Needless to say, the language had come much more easily when his new peers considered him Giovanni d'Este. He had kissed His Holiness's rings, the metallic tang bitter in his mouth, but he had known jail once, and that his family had only known incarceration had solidified his position. He was not forsworn to any oath, but he was willing to be, if Ferrara choked it out of him. Inwardly peeved that Ferrara doubted him, but understanding that it was his sincerity in question, not his devotion, he rose only long enough to take a knee on the heart rug. He was getting too old for this, or perhaps his knees were just becoming wearied of kneeling. "As you will, my liege," he said clearly, lowering his eyes that the astute Duke would not see the challenge offered in them.

It was all he had waited for and more, all that was necessary were the words of marriage and Naples would fall rightfully into his lap. He could rule only so long as Ana-Catalina remained in the background. He leaned forward, one forearm rested to his knee and the other gripped at the arm of his chair, fingers rubbing against one another as if he were anticipating something. Killing her was an option he courted, and still kept in the back of his mind but if Giovanni kept her subdued while in Italy then so much the better. If worse came to worse both of them could go, and none would be the wiser. "As it was before sworn, and it seems you are accepting of what might come of a union to my niece I do accept you now. You are servant to me, Giovanni. Remember that, and there will be no ill will between us." Regarding the man he thought will within his grasp and beneath his power, he marked the bowed head with a superior sense of righteousness. Should there be no children between Giovanni and his niece, then Naples would doubly be in the clear for him to take hold of the reigns of power without seemingly to be the cause. "With the Spring there will come war to Scotland. My niece is to be crowned two days from hence and in that time if the weather holds, then his Holiness can see to the proprieties until you are both restored safely to Naples were a more public ceremony might be held." Why he wished his niece married he kept to himself for now. But his hold on Naples depended on her being happily wedded, bedded and out of his hair. "What say you, my lord Giovanni?" His answer would be the most telling.

"I serve your lordship. If that is what Your Grace demands, then so be it." He did not mind being forsworn for a good cause. In fact, were he not so annoyed at assuming such an uncomfortable position, he might have been amused. Ferrara thought him a good and obedient servant, if a bit of a coward. And this was precisely the image he had cultivated. It was not his place to confirm or deny the Duke's plans, but he nodded in agreement, acknowledging his role in the events that would soon transpire. What he did in private, how he addressed the question of Ana-Catalina's safety, was his alone to contemplate. He did not counter Ferrara's orders out of spite, and felt honest remorse at the idea of betraying his trust, but Seithfed knew far too much about this former mentor for comfort. The more distance placed between Ana-Catalina and her uncle, the better. If that distance spanned the mortal and heavenly realms, he would never raise his voice in protest. "I am indebted to Your Grace for placing such honor and trust in me." It would be mawkish to mention he hoped to atone for abandoning Vigolante. Not only would it raise suspicion, because it was so wholly false, it was nothing he could feign honesty in. So he let it go, as it seemed Ferrara was temporarily willing to do.

Appeased that all would go so smoothly according to his wishes, he nodded and waved that the man would get up from his knees. They were near enough the same age, separated by a decade or two and he knew well how loathsome it was to be forever staring at the floor. "My trust you have indeed. See that it is not abused my lord. Now you might retire from my presence. And Giovanni, when you leave here make sure to give my instructions regarding your nuptials to Marcos d'Ercole, Ana-Catalina's Master Chamberlain. He should know who his new lord is." That would simply fetch the best of Marcos' anger and he knew well how to rouse it in the man. Once that was done, he could direct it where he willed and take out a few others who needed to be dealt with swiftly while he was here in Skye. "Have them send my niece in, she waits outside." He had kept her waiting long enough and no doubt when she saw Giovanni her hopes might have risen. It would be enjoyable to dash them for a little while and leave her struggling for balance. It made for her signing his regency into law all the easier. Though he thought Giovanni intelligent, he himself would have waited until he was wed to the girl to take power, but that was where they differed.[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Clash of Titans[/u]


Ana-Catalina gave little away when she was told that she would be dining with her uncle that evening. Rather than show any emotion, she merely bowed her head to her uncle's chamberlain and murmured that she would be indeed be ready. Yet before the man could leave, she stayed him with a word and when he faced her again, she was inclined to ask as to whether or not that her uncle wished the use of her own cook who was as accomplished as he was trustworthy. Such a request seemed to baffle the man, and his neck flushed red before he verbally declined. Smiling then as serenely as she had come to be called, she nodded and all but dismissed the man when she called for her maids that she would have a bath.

Standing outside the anteroom of her uncle's apartments now she wondered how there could be so many important dignitaries within the castle and yet she had seen none of them herself? When she questioned her chamberlain, Don Marcos d'Ercole regarding why she had not seen a single dignitary he smoothly replied that His Grace, her uncle was seeing to the proprieties of state. Knowing that she had no way of circumventing his explanation, she only nodded while holding fast to the neutral expression her face while inwardly she seethed. The man had more than his fair share of gall to completely leave her out of the circle of information.

With all that conversation behind her now she slipped into the apartments afforded to the Duke of Ferrara. Like her own, they were spacious and he had them decorated according to his tastes which were lavish and opulent. His furniture was heavy and carved, with pillows strew across the chairs and rugs keeping the chill from the floor. Each wall carried a tapestry depicting the history of the d'Este's rise to power. Eyes the color of moonbeams through thin clouds cruised over the gleaming surfaces of wood heavy with glass and gold candlesticks. He had brought with him the seeming wealth of his holdings, and they abounded in the expensive wax that burned along the mantle of the hearth. "I trust you feel as well as you look, niece." Ana-Catalina had forgotten his voice and how easily it cut through her. She curtseyed deeply, keeping her head bowed so that uncle would not see the derision in her eyes when she replied. "I am treated well, thank you, Your Grace." He found her voice was pleasing though he had never deigned to hear it before at any great length.

Motioning toward the table that was laid out with a myriad of dishes native to their homeland, Ana-Catalina took a seat which was held out for her by a gracious and unobtrusive servant. They would slink about, clearing and serving with an affinity for remaining in the background just as her uncle liked it. Servants shouldn't be seen or heard was his school of thinking which was so different from her own. Hadn't she befriended her own duenna? Such behavior was inexcusable in the man's mind and he had consented for only so long before dealing with the woman known formally as Donna Lucrezia Elsabeth Calavetti. Their meal was blessed by none other than the Bishop Rieti who gave her a censoring glance before leaving them to their plates. Conscious of the material of her gown she was methodic in how she ate, tearing pieces of meal into small bites. In truth she hadn't much of an appetite when dining with the menacingly affable person of her uncle, but at least this way she appeared the picture of a dainty lady.

As the minutes past she wondered when he would speak to her, when he would question or worse yet when he would accuse. Letting out a quiet breath, she continued to chew or drink until she saw him shift. His eyes were like the polished metal of a suit of armor save there was no gallantry within them. "I spoke with your suitors, each one a fine man in his own right. None of them will do." He waited until she was completely captured by his words, and the underlying sense of quelling any notion she might have had at rising against him was squelched. "Because of this, I have conferred with His Holiness and we are agreed that it should be Don Marcos Antonia d'Ercole that you will wed. He is a man who has long served me in good standing and with whom I can trust your care completely." His words were matter-of-fact yet beneath them was a thinly veiled layer of self-satisfaction. So easily read was his niece, those eyes large and liquid like the surface of a goblet of mercury. He could see how she might be considered desirable with her smooth complexion and comely figure. Though she had dressed as a more mature woman might, he found the dark color on her to be in stark contrast with the olive skin of her cheeks. Much like a cat might watch a mouse, he continued to observe her as she ate, the studied and thorough way her fingers moved food from her plate to her mouth, how her fingers grasped her goblet. He might have considered her elegant were she older than her eighteen years.

Food seemed to catch in her throat as she swallowed hard, willing the half eaten morsel toward her stomach. Choosing her words so that she might seem as nonchalant as possible, she set aside the eating knife she had been using to gently dab the cloth in her lap against her mouth. "Your Grace did meet with his lordship, Don Giovanni de Vigolante, did he not? I had hoped that a match might be made there with him. He has sworn that he would be loyal to Naples if such an arrangement might be made." Beneath the surface of the table, her fingers clenched together as if helping to poise her body for any blow that might come. Ana-Catalina was well used to the fact that her uncle enjoyed employing a certain physical violence against her person. Though he leaned heavily on one forearm against the table, pushing aside his plate he made no move to strike her across its surface. "I have spoken with him, and know for a certain that although he would indeed be loyal to Naples, his previous oath to me would take precedence over any promise he might or may make you to." Watching as her shoulders flinched he smiled slightly, enjoying how the verbal blow gave as much pleasure as any physical one might have.

Anger was not a new emotion to her, but she had never before felt it so keenly nor as quickly as now. Flooding her vision so that the world was awash in shades of red, she sat stoic and silent at her uncle's table without so much as blinking. Little did she know that the rage she was feeling was visible to the man across from her and that he fed off the naked vehemence he saw brewing there. That he could like so effectively only enhanced his predominance. "You look ill, my dear. Perhaps you should retire to your rooms?" When she only nodded mutely he was certain that she would be unstable enough to cause a stir that would further his cause. "Before you do there is the matter of the estate of Naples and of the validity of my Regency my dear. You certainly can't allow Marcos to place himself in line to potentially be king now can you?" Laying his plans carefully, he watched as a dull awareness began to take hold of his niece. She was innocent of many things but her mind was still a keen thing. It was why he had so often kept her in the dark on so many other matters. Were she to learn to much, she might be a greater adversary than he thought prudent. "Of course, uncle." Her voice held not a note of suspicion, only a tenor of defeat which he readily pounced upon by offering her the necessary parchment, quill and ink so that her signature and seal might be affixed. When he had it in his hands, he all but waved her away. "I have taken the advice of your former suitor, Don Giovanni and decided that you would do well to learn the management of large estates from the Duchess here and any other woman whom she might consider an equal in stature."

Surprised by the sudden change in the parameters regarding her person, Ana-Catalina failed to see through to the ramifications of her uncle's words. Euphoric but confused she began to exits her uncle's chambers with mixed emotion. His parting words to her evaporated the cloud from around her, sending her spiraling back to a broiling rage. "Know that he is my man, and does as I bid, Ana-Catalina Theresa. Dare not set yourself to clash with titans lest you fall pray to the downfall of all mortal men." Laughing, he shut the door into her face, returning to the table and pouring himself a celebratory goblet of wine. He would peruse again and again the written words proclaiming his regency over Naples.

Outside the apartments of the Duke, the young woman who would Queen of Naples in a few scant days fumed, recalling the events of the previous evening that lent her so easily into her uncle's trap. The whole time while she had laid herself bare before Giovanni he had been skillfully luring her into the belief that she could trust him the night before.

~~~~~~~~~

She was under not certain terms pleased by the most recent results of her life, yet none of that showed on the young countenance of the young woman who would be crowned Queen of Naples. There was only a short time between now and the day she would forever be stripped of the slightest notion of freedom. And to be certain that she was kept shackled to whatever game was afoot she was forbidden to leave the castle proper. Which meant she was also restricted from the grounds. It boiled in her blood, though nothing of seething anger showed on her features which were coolly polite. Given that she could not go outside, she chose to roam the halls until she came to the greater solar of the castle which afforded her a brilliant view of the forest with its large expanse of windows and generous hearth. It gave her all the comforts of being outside for intent and purpose without having to brave the January chill. And wouldn't her maids be pleased that the heavy brocade they had decided to entomb her in would not be mushed? Flicking a disdainful glance at the amber colored cloth, her fists clenched before she could compose herself enough to take some interest in the tapestries hung about the walls. They were certainly ... earthy if the satyr's frolicking amidst nymphs was any indication. Fascinated by the images that seemed to slowly populate themselves from the colorful fabric her guard relaxed enough so that she could image herself there,wooded glen with water just out of sight but not out of hearing distance. If only it weren't just a daydream, it might actually be worth losing a little skin from her hide over.

Days seemed to go by with excruciating slowness, matching the pace of Skye's wintry weather, which currently consisted of low, thick gray clouds bringing with them scents of the sea and a heavy wintry mixture that at once frosted the city of Turas Lan, and created untold grief for men who made their trades moving between the Western Islands and Argyll. The sky in no way matched Seithfed's mood. He inwardly raged, an emotion so thick it was nearly choking. Though he had walked the streets of Turas Lan, no answers came to him, save the usual suspects. And so he turned toward the castle in search first of information, and then of the principessa. He hadn't heard a word from her in weeks, and this was never a good sign. With him, he brought a peace offering of sorts -- nothing of value, for she could procure any amount of sparkly things well beyond his budget, but a book. Hand-bound leather and pages that would fly loose if not tended to properly, the lettering was not the clearest, but it was certainly authentic. The travelogue of Agilwardus, a young Crusader from Silesus. To his mind, it was perfectly appropriate reading for the principessa, but he had little idea what restrictions were imposed upon her education. As he waited to gain audience, he moved the pages to his favorite passage. Agilwardus was a very well-traveled young man, having ventured from one coast of Africa to another, journeying up the coast of Italia and down into Dalmatia and Ilyria, seeing Central Asia's inland sea and vast mountains before choosing to return home to his small vilage in the Holy Roman Empire. Agilwardus had absolutely no sense of humor, but Seithfed certainly did, and the accounts of travel were so eerily similar to his, despite the hundred years' difference in age, the book was very much so one of his most prized possessions. He read for a bit about Dalmascus, too aware of what sort of lion's den he had walked into to give the book his undivided attention. True, his hand stayed within quick reach of his sword, nearly brushing the pommel.

Though his presence was indeed ordered immediately into her own whenever she should call he was met at the door of the Princess, soon to be Queen by the coy smiling countenance of her maid, whom Giovanni as Seithfed had already become ... acquainted. Her smile was all charm, yet her eyes failed to warm completely. There was a hint of malice, give that she knew who he was and yet her mistress refused to be a party to any 'gossip' foul or fair as it seemed when it came to his person. "My Lord, I am afraid that Her Grace is not available at the moment." It was more than a lie, but what was he to know of what was going on in the Princess' household? Don Marcos kept everyone including Ana-Catalina beneath his iron fist and this mummer who claimed to be a titled man of Italy would mark and remember it well. "Might I interest you in somewhat else?" Isabel knew full well what she offered but with her mistress currently out of the apartments given to her by the Duke and Duchess and her uncle and Chamberlain cloistered with the Pope, Isabel had full run of the lush interior and she deemed to take full advantage of it. Besides which, he was a man of some skill, and pondered if that skill were only a singular event or if he could call upon them at will?

Seithfed's eyes creased in amusement. He put the book in his pocket and rose in a fluid motion. He generally curtsied to all women, no matter the title, but Isabella -- it was Isabella, yes? -- had since proven she was no lady. He saw the way she positioned herself between him and the doorway, where presumably, Ana-Catalina was waiting to be released from her prison cell. He lowered his voice, but it remained a conversational tone, moving slightly closer to her in a way that was a slight incursion on her personal space, but in no way suggestive. "What you have to offer, I have already supped upon." He saw the glint in her eyes, cold and hard, and wondered precisely where her loyalties were. This was a court of vipers and scorpions, and there was nowhere safe to tread, or so it seemed at times. Fortunately, he had lived in Italia not only long enough to perfect the natives' accent, but to learn the rules they played by. Hers was an easy game, and one far less intellectually intriguing than other affairs he had engaged in on shakier grounds. "Do correct me, my dear, if I am mistaken." He leaned a bit closer. To her uninformed eye, it would seem his surreptitious look around the room was in search of prying eyes. In reality, he would know if the end table had been moved so much as a millimeter out of place without having need for such mockery. He cupped her jaw with his left hand, the thumb very near but not touching her full lips. "When may I see your mistress? I have a gift for her." Indeed, she was a fool if she thought to play him. He had had many years to perfect the art, and the master was at work.

To Isabella his suggestive stance might have put her in a position to make good her intentions yet his sharp scrutiny sent a small tingle down her spine that she should have listened better to. Rather than do that, she hummed only briefly when his fingers caressed her jaw, much in the same manner as he had before. Almost ready to sway into his arm and perform whichever act he desired his query was met with a momentary flare of female outrage. Indignant that she might have fallen into charms that seemed far more deadly, she edged her face from his grasp with eyes looking at him askance as she turned her head away. "I am informed that your person is not allowed before the Principessa until after His Grace, the Duke of Ferrara and the Holy Father, the Pope have returned to Rome in three days hence." Something sparked in her though the moment the words were said and although she might not have been as cunning as Don Marcos she certainly had enough seething anger in her toward the man to cause trouble for others. Slipping from the doorway, she turned coyly toward him with her hands resting behind her back. "But I will tell you where she is." What she wished in return was nothing of his person, oh no ... she would reap a greater reward when news of his visit reached all the right ears. "Her Grace wished a walk, and ventured toward the Grand Solar. If you wish to speak to her, to see her ... I would bid you go there. Good afternoon, my Lord." It took all of her strength not to shriek with laughter as she excused herself with a flippant toss of her wheat colored hair. She would give them an hour, perhaps more and then ... then it would be for the Duke of Ferrara and Don Marcos to decide their fates.

He watched her like a cat contemplates its meal before pouncing. The knowledge she held over him was no longer useful, but there was no use letting her know this. A certain part of him panged at the fate likely in store for the meddling maid, for her announcement would do nothing but ruin her career at court and possibly her life. The men she was toying with, unlike the amiable Don Giovanni, cared very little for courtly romances. He looked down after she left to see that his hand had even outstretched slightly as if to pull her back. Though he wished to, he could not have shaken sense into that pretty head of hers. She was bent on mischief, and was misguided in thinking her efforts would reap her any political benefit. Italians. He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his forehead, just to have something to do with that outstretched hand. Shaking his head, he folded the handkerchief and went in search of Ana-Catalina. How he wished he had minions to track down Isabel and shake her from her course, but having only himself, he silenced his conscience and turned down the corridor toward the solar.

Whatever her course, it would surely only end to serve those who actually held power rather than those who thought they grasped it firmly. There was no music that would greet him other than the thunderous hiss and pop that came from the hearth as ir roared heat into the room. Light danced red and orange and yellow across the brushed stone of the walls, muting some and invigorating other colors along the tapestries. And there, just within an small alcove, lost in thought was the currently errant future Queen of Naples. There seemed to be a sway to her person as she gazed raptly upward toward the imagined or real satyrs and nymphs. Hands, bejeweled as her station and her maids saw fit she seemed the perfect picture of royalty save for the naked hunger to be anywhere else but 'here' in those dark eyes. Hair sleek and as of yet unadorned, thanks be to God, she might have very well jumped full into the tapestry before her and no doubt would have been quite at home with such a smile just glancing across her lips. Not quite formed but teasingly ready.

He showed himself into the solar, given the maid who had greeted him earlier had been so rude as to proposition him and then get angry when he accepted, albeit with terms it might be difficult for her to fulfill. He had straightened himself up as much as he could on the walk over, and if the earlier conversation had left him slightly off his balance, it didn't show. After all, the world was a very unstable place, and he could only do his best to counter its shifts and rolls. The solar was a beautiful place, but with Scotland's dreary weather, it hardly lived up to its name. Most of the light came from the fireplace, and though it gave the room a cozy look, there was not much in the way of cheer coming from the northern sky outside the windows. He found the principessa in her alcove and crossed the room, clearing his throat before doing so, given the dreamy look in her eyes. He bowed elegantly. "Madonna, a pleasure to see you looking so well." He could have easily substituted "well" with "alive," with no humor intended, but the purpose of his visit was to keep things light -- or at least, on the same level of grimness as he had started the day with.

It could have all been some very nice dream, with a kind uncle in the wings some where and her family still alive. In this little place carved from everything imaginary she could be as charmingly witty and as free as a bird. "Giovanni, you came." Her voice was soft, like an airy bit of down caught in the wind and the smile that had just teased at the edges bloomed fully. For all that she might wished to remain in the dream his presence boded that she was still firmly rooted in reality. Shaking her head briefly as if to clear it of the webs she had spun, her hand motioned faintly toward the tapestry. "I was admiring the artwork that they have here. It is ... easier to imagine yourself somewhere else when so pretty a picture is presented is it not?" She need not mention the dreariness of the outside world, nor of the confines that kept her more or less physically bound to little more than a few rooms within Griffin Castle. Strangely, she felt oddly peaceful around him, but never quite questioned why. Sighing, she turned from the tapestry and its frivolity, looking up at him.

He wouldn't have an answer for her if she voiced her question. He felt as if he were the least peaceful person every placed upon God's earth. In gloomier moments, he believed himself an old stormcrow, and unfortunately, this was proving to be a very apt description. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him, which made him smile warmly. He straightened from the bow and followed her gaze to the tapestries. "I once hated these types of works, you know. They were everywhere in Vigolante until I had enough sense to take them down. I imagined they were a scene that would never happen, to amuse minds that believed such things were possible. But in their absence, there was a certain lack of color and joy, and I realized having a bit of hope for the impossible is not entirely a bad thing. And on that note, I brought you a bit of a gift." He pulled the travelogue out of his pocket and presented it to her. It looked as if it had traveled the world, for it had. Not a pretty book by any stretch, like Don Giovanni, it had a certain peaceful character to it, a charm that belied the plain words and utilitarian cover.

"An old friend of mine found it in his father's private library. Quite traveled himself, he knew I would enjoy it." He wanted to joke with her, to make a comment about impeccable tastes, to make her laugh. But she seemed so enchanted with the book, he merely stood back and watched her. He did not need to remind himself of her youth; she radiated a certain energy that only those who had advanced past a certain number of years could detect. Yet she was far more than her years in many ways; that part of her, indomitable, came out when she spoke of freedom, or grasped artifacts of another man's freedom in her hands. "I am not sure if it was Anselm's grandfather. They may not even be related by blood. At which point, I cannot even begin to tell you how he uncovered the book. I know many would treat it as a historical account, and while it is accurate, the value of the book is in the man's experiences. The textures of the foods he eats, the smell of foreign spices -- all things difficult to render upon paper, but not impossible." He paused, looked quietly at her. "I have lied to you before, madonna, and I came to make amends. It is not out of fear of discovery I tell you this, but because there isn't a need for the mask. The 'uncanny' resemblance to the man at the docks, a certain merchant captain named Kendrick Seithfed -- we are one and the same." He would explain further before she had a chance to form the wrong idea. He was absolutely firm in wishing to be straight forward with her. Explanations, not excuses. "When I left Vigolante, I was not on good terms with your uncle. I was a disappointment to him, and it was best for all concerned that I left expediently. I took another name and did not concern myself with Parma until your lord chamberlain found me. It seems my lack of interest in Vigolante is precisely why the Duke of Ferrara would find a friend once again in me. In the interests of honesty, I confess. And I apologize." She could take the apology as she wished. A jaded view would make him just another courtier back-pedaling for favor. But something earnest in his eyes, and the thought he had placed in the gift, remembrance of their first conversation, would lead to another opinion. This was not calculated. Had it been, he would never have confessed.


She listened with rapt interest to the origin of the book, and nothing could have enchanted her more than from where it came and how it had affected him as well. "He writes better than most poets, for his words seemed to indeed draw more of the word than flowery prose can." Happy to be delighted by more of the books background she was confused at first when he explained his dual personality, or rather the fact that he did indeed travel with more than a single alias. Coupled with the fact that he was once an agent of her uncles, her heart beat fast in her chest only to freeze and trip dazedly from where it had been caged. Blinking as if she was not sure she was properly understanding him she sat on the nearest surface, setting the book just at her side. Dazedly looking at her clasped hands, she marveled that the light could still wink from the cut gem surfaces that ringed her fingers. Brow furrowed, she shook her head as if once more trying to clear it of the webs, this time of treachery and deceit. "Are you ... Are you an agent of my uncle? Do you give me this gift, do you court me because of him?" Her hands unclasped as she found it necessary to press the tips of her fingers against her forehead. The whispered bedchamber intrigues of her maid's came swiftly back to haunt her, and in no little detail. Crowded suddenly with one to many voices and emotions she rose and paced, only this time with agitation, clasping and unclasping her hands. "I do not understand this! If you are not playing this game on the side of my uncle, then why are you doing this on his behalf?" Rarely she raised her voice in the presence of those she was not completely familiar with but with the pressure of her coronation just days away, this was simply to much. "Why do you toy with me, with these gifts, with your stories? Do you do this to ruin me for some other gain?" Everyone wanted something of her, and her confusion only lent to her further agitation.

"No," he responded bluntly. "I am an agent of no man's." His gaze was direct, unwavering, not that of a man who had something to hide. "Your uncle elevated me to Marchese de Vigolante in the hopes that I would become an agent. When I did not -- well, you see the reason for my hasty escape." He tried to keep the voice of reason. Her temper was understandable, he told himself. The court she was in was unsafe, unstable, and if anything crumbled, she would be the first to fall. He had never been in her position and never hoped to be, but he could sympathize. She did not know it, but her title seemed to swell around her. She did not wear the crown yet, but its authority made her great. "I do play a game, madonna, but it is not what you think. An alliance to me keeps you free of your uncle, and safe from your enemies. We share a temporary goal, and that is all. It does not make me your enemy. Have me swear it. Have me swear that I mean you no harm. Bid your lady bring a Bible, and I will lay my hand upon it and swear it is the truth. Madonna, I court you because with me, you will have your freedom. I will swear to that, too." Though his voice grew in volume, it never wavered from its steady pace. His last sentence was spoken softly. "I need nothing from you, principessa, though I know asking for your trust is asking a great deal. I will be your constant ally, if you allow me the honor." He inclined his head then, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

She could not dissuade herself from a truth that stared her so bluntly in the face no matter how much her ire wanted her to. Knowing honesty for a surety was a skill she had not honed as sharply as she aught to have, otherwise some of her household might still be alive, but his completely fervent oath undid her. Bearing down on her jaw, she ordered herself not to burst into the tears she so desperately wished to and turned toward him with a face that was eerily grave. "My trust has been abused more than once in my life, my lord. Many have sworn before the Grace of God to be loyal to me ... but their loyalties have laid at the feet of others." Her uncle! All roads no matter from where they began seemed to end with him. It erroded her belief that there was such a thing as freedom. "You would never return to Italy and my life, my people are there. I know that my uncle means to rule on my behalf, since I am not of age and I am a woman." That her life could spin so far from her grasp was becoming more of reality that she was trying desperately to hold onto. "I want to believe you, and I do not need a bible nor any of my ladies to have an oath sworn before me. You seem to be quite the man of courtly ways if their tales are to be believed." Sighing, she sat again only this time with the slump of shoulders that belied the fact that her ladies had ... carnal knowledge of him was like a blow to the skull. And a little more than disconcerting! Through the need to tears she broke out in laughter that was watery as it was lame. "Did you truly sleep with the both of them?" Clasping her hands to her head, she looked briefly up at the ceiling before returning her gaze to him. "I think I should take nothing of value from meeting you, and yet I have. Our goal maybe temporary but what resolution you would offer even if not on my uncle's behalf is not a situation that is temporary. A marriage to me would not be an easy thing, nor do I suspect one to you would be." Licking her lips, she was startled that she wanted more than anything was to find solace in a jug of wine. It seemed to work well enough for the guards. "I know your words to be true, for any man who would turn away from my uncle usually does not live long to prosper and you seem to have ... prospered if only in certain aspects. So give me your oath and your true name and let us not ever speak of this again." What other quagmire might she get herself into, it was going to be interesting whatever it was.

He eventually lifted his gaze and watched her. He did not expect immediate agreement with his plans, and so there was very little disappointment to be found in him when she held to her suspicions. He had not lived a moral life, and while most of the men she encountered and would still encounter had not lived as saints, he had to convince her that he was different. He was honest. It was quite a blow when she questioned him about his ill-regarded night with her ladies. Honesty was one thing, intentionally hurting her with it was another. "I did, but I did not realize they were in your service. Had I, I would have shown a bit more ... restraint." Further than that, his exploits were none of her business. What she had heard from her ladies already was quite enough. He was quiet for a moment longer, contemplating her words. "Then do not choose me, if you find me lacking in whatever you desire in a husband. Choose another man. Choose a more biddable mate. I know my faults, madonna, and have had a good many years to make peace with them. But for all I may be accused of doing, I am honest in my intentions. Yes, for a moment, the goal is the same. I would keep you safe. I would keep you happy. If that is in Italia, I would gladly follow you home. I know marriage isn't for a moment, madonna; I have never taken vows before God lightly. I would not account for all my faults before you now and I do not expect you for a list of your transgressions, but I believe we would be well-suited." He could not convince her beyond those words, and so his voice fell silent again. His eyes turned to the crackling fire in the hearth as he contemplated her final demand. A fair one, too, but one whose terms would cost him too dearly. The man he had been, the man he had left behind, the boy who had bargained for his family's life -- he existed no longer. The man who existed, who had been crafted, who had rebelled against his master -- he stood in this room now, a product of his own triumphs and mistakes, flawed, but perhaps worth saving. There would be no turning back once he gave his name. Though it felt an eternity to him, he knew it was but a second before he drew his sword, bent upon his knee, and pressed his forehead to the hilt. "I, Don Giovanni, Marchese de Vigolante de Parma, do swear my independence and that my motives are pure. I swear this without malice or vengeance, and my oath is given freely."

That he would place himself so completely at the dagger's edge as it were that she could not fault him for his honesty. She knew that men had certain needs to which she was widely unknowing of and so could only take the elicit gossip of her ladies to be widely exaggerated, or at least could have had he not asserted they were truth. It was something she would have to ask Byram of. If anyone were honest with her to a fault, it was her physician. Feeling as if she were far older than she actually she looked toward the man who called himself Giovanni and wished she had a better gift for speech than what God had saddled her with. "If I wanted a biddable husband, I would have married the last man my uncle pranced before me. If I am to survive and surpass his life span I need not a biddable fop but a man. Italy is my place, but it is a place fraught with danger as you seem to know so readily. My mother once said that I was too young to be so old, but I feel like I've lived far longer than I was supposed to have. Perhaps I have, if only at the discretion of ... of my uncle." If might just turn him blue to know she chose this Don Giovanni. Before all this, she had thought only the best of him, and he did made her laugh. There was simply something about him that did seem to suit. "I have to long been surrounded by people whose intentions were not as honest nor as pure in its own perspective as you. Forgive me that I seem to turn from maid to shrew in less than a moment's notice. I just .. I just wished so much to be ... to be anything but what I am destined to be. I have not behaved in a manner befitting my station, and I am sorry for that. I should have a greater compassion for those who had the courage to tear themselves away from my uncle's grasp." And it was a powerful thing indeed, something that she did not think she had in her. It always seemed as if she were chiding herself, coaxing or prompting herself to composure yet there was no hiding the surprise over his actions, the drawing of his sword in her presence and his kneeling. That such an action should call for a courtly reaction did make her rise, though her knees felt weak as if she had just woke from a long fevered dream. Hesitantly, she brushed the merest tips of her fingers to his bent head and knew she could trust him completely. "Rise then, Don Giovanni, Marchese de Vigolante de Parma and be known as a friend to us." It felt strange still to use the royal plural and she did so sparingly since the use of it made her feel like a complete imposter. Feeling the cracks in her facade growing, she gave up the pretense of royalty and grasped the hands that held his sword. "I would beg you never to hold another secret so close. I live daily with lies and fear. If you mean your oath, and I believe in my heart that you do, you will never speak but truth to me." She was suddenly young, vulnerable and completely without a trace of facade. "Please! I cannot take another betrayal." She gave in then to the tears that had threatened earlier.

He met her eyes then, as her hands came to a rest upon his. The lessons he had learned in life had not been handed to him. He had stumbled through them blindly. He had sacrificed. He had made choices that had resulted in personal success, and viewed the cost as negligible. This was no sacrifice on his part -- it was right. He could flee halfway around the world to escape his duties, but not his conscience. "There will always be the truth between us, principessa. I implore you, have faith in me. Yours is not a life that has afforded you the luxury of trust, and if it must be so, I will work to earn yours. I will not presume to think I have it now." He stayed there for a moment longer, allowing her a moment to gather herself. Yet when she spoke, and he heard her voice quaver, any thoughts about his own past rapidly dissipated. What was his history but so many ghosts now? Those he had sacrificed for so long ago had found peace. The faces he remembered, they were no more than ghosts. Living or dead, they were firmly lodged in a past he would never revisit. Though the battlefields of his youth, the dank prison cell he had occupied with his brothers, and the horrors faced by a young and hotheaded man called to him in nightmare, he had literally made a career of nailing the coffin shut on his origins. He let them go as he rose. He should have said goodbye to the memories long ago. He sheathed his sword, the blade falling soundlessly into the leather banded in silver, where it resumed its natural balance on his left side. She did not need courtly words and he did not wish to offer them. It was not her vulnerability that inspired him to act, but the strength required to have arrived this far without yet yielding. Though she would soon be the Queen of Naples, right now she was a young woman in need of an ally. He gathered her in his arms and held her until the tears stopped.

There had been too many lessons in her own life and so few of them had been ones she could recall with any sort of pleasantness. Always when she put her trust in others it was dashed or betrayed, and time and time again she picked up the pieces of her life and tried to make the best of the situations handed to her. If for some reason he too were to turn on her, no doubt it would be with the very dagger necessary to end it all and hand the reigns of power fully to her uncle. "There is much ahead that will afford you the opportunity to gain my trust. Rest assured in knowing that, though I can offer you little comfort by it." To her, the words sounded so cold yet if he had once slipped from her uncle's grasp than perhaps his promises of safety could indeed be valid. Though her heart was often kept in a gilded prison of doubt and mistrust, she could not help the tiny light of hope that was bound and determined to remain lit. When he held her, offered her the simple gesture of understanding she let all the tears that had been bound by decorum and circumstance be shed. It was no little torrent either, leaving the stain of damp there upon his clothing when finally all that needed venting was exhausted. She cared that his person might be in greater danger now that her uncle was on the island, and coupled with the fact that he and her Master Chamberlain were not on the best of her terms she grew fearful. How could she protect him, when she needed his protection? It was a quandary that brought her face up, streaked still with the wet from her tears. "My uncle is here now! You must take greater care when coming to see me until he leaves, or until ... until after the coronation. Surely if he knows you are here, he will send for you. He will wish to speak with you regarding ... regarding the terms of our courtship." That her uncle had left her alone these past few days since coming to Turas Lan was something of a mystery to her, but it did not lessen the dread she had felt.

What he knew of Ferrara had made his decision to leave Vigolante quite easy. With no more leverage upon the Marchese, their farewell had suited both parties. Until now. Perhaps this was truly a parting gift, and the only understanding between two men who saw the world in vastly different ways. He knew he must be careful regarding the Duke, but he considered his place with Ana-Catalina far too important to jeopardize by past unease. There were very few souls who could utterly disrupt this union, yet he had known disappointment enough to understand the potential of underestimating Ferrara's mental stability. All these thoughts rolled through his mind like boulders, each leaving a gouge where they passed. This would not be an easy path to tread, but he had never assumed it would be. If he was comfortable with his oath, it was only the comfort gained by deep examination of each potential outcome. To an outsider, his actions were completely altruistic, without any personal benefit but with great personal sacrifice. He was playing the hero, to save this fair maiden from her uncle's tyranny. Seithfed, however, knew it to be a little more involved, his actions a little more selfish, if the outcome was just as pure. "I will take the greatest care," he replied, releasing her slightly. Their position was improper, and he did not wish to consider which limb he might lose should they be found so compromised. "I am absolutely certain he will send for me. We have a great deal to discuss. And I am confident your lord chamberlain has had only glowing praise regarding my person, which shall make our eventual meeting all the more entertaining. However, we have more to consider than my safety. Are you safe?" He wondered if her potential assailant had meant to kill her, or if the gravity of the accident was meant to be a threat to Ferrara. It concerned him now. If Ferrara did not seem surprised to hear of the events transpiring in his niece's court, he would most certainly have an answer.

Though she felt reassured that he would take greater care, it did not lessen the feelings of dread that she kept close to her heart. There was just so few days left until she was crowned, and between then and now so much could happen. So few could be trusted and with her Uncle having yet to make his intentions toward her suitor and indeed her life. So much depended on the whims of others, yet she had a precarious hold on the last few threads that might allow her to thwart her uncle's attempt to rule in her name. Easing from his arms, she crossed her own so that she held herself. "I am not at all certain that Don Marcos has anything but a fair amount of distrust for you." And while she thought it strange before, she understood better now and could smile at least a little over it. "I think perhaps you intimidate him, Don Giovanni." Clenching her hands against her upper arms, she shook her head a little over it before her head came up quickly, eyes widening at his question. "My safety has come into question of late. It has not be easy to find information that has not spilled out to other parties regarding who it is that might be at the root cause of my ... recent tumble down the stairs. I was pushed, I know this. But with Don Marcos keeping me chained within the apartments, or with so many guards that I feel as if I can not breathe." Though her voice remained low, the heat that entered it was audible. And knowing that even now their meeting might be under the watchful ears or eyes of her uncle's agents or worse ... the House of Verona she braced her hands against one of his forearms while looking toward the doorway. "I cannot even trust my maids, nor my guard. Because of this, I have hired a man who goes by the name of Percival Vizharen. If you have need of arms then he is the man with whom I have placed my person and trust. There is also a woman who came to visit me, an ambassador of Avaria by the name of Lady Claramae St. Laurence. There is something between her and Don Marcos, but I believe her to be someone with whom we might be able to trust as well. I have no way of communicating with them outside of my apartments." Shuddering at the thought, she wondered if not for once if she would indeed make it until the spring.

"Oh, the feeling is quite mutual," Seithfed joked. Admittedly, it was gallows humor, but d'Ercole could be dealt with. He was a worm struggling toward daylight, sniveling for a bit of recognition by Ferrara, and with some very unhealthy obsessions, if rumors were to be believed. "I know your uncle will wish my presence soon, and I can only assure you that I will do my best to better your situation. I do not think I can fully remedy your troubles yet, but there is no need to feel so caged and alone." He looked about the room again, and though it had warmth in places, the absence of the company of women her own age was disconcerting. "And if it comes to it," he added a bit more softly, "I will contact either of these names, and see that they accomplish what I cannot. If ever you have need -- if you ever must send word, I am a willing conspirator. But I have already been in your presence without chaperon for too long, my lady. I will visit soon." He bowed to her, not so formally this time, eyes meeting hers with an amused glint. He enjoyed taking on her enemies, though he played his game carefully. There was intelligence in him that was so very easily overlooked. "Good day," he added, and then departed. Once beyond the door of the solar, his feet took him swiftly to his next destination -- perhaps a tavern, where he might plot over his cups.[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Tales of a Life[/u]


Never before had she felt such heated rage, so insurmountable that until her blood cooled enough she would see only in shades of red as vibrant as the pulse of her heart. Though she had eaten just a scant hour before, her stomach felt as hollow as that of a person long starved of food. Stumbling, but not in the way of one poisoned or drunk she made her way through the castle in a blinded state of distress that was palpable. Her eyes, heated like mercury left near a flame rolled ominously as she past the crowded Great Hall, a rarity that sent a small wave of whispers reflected from the walls as if they had been shouting. What did any of them know? How could they even begin to understand that all of her life was going to crumble around her, and nothing would be left to salvage. And vows of fealty? What were they worth? Nothing! Nothing, her mind cried out as she stalked through passages she'd never been through and clamored down steps she had never seen. Like a ghost in a cloud of black silk corded with braid of gold, she all but marched like a solider through any door that was closed to her. If she was questioned, she remembered not her answers but soon enough found herself confronted by the fact that not only was she losing herself somewhere in the castle but that she had completely ignored the fact that she was very much without a guard or maid in attendance upon her. Yet she did realize that the room she was in was no ordinary room and belonged to that of the Duchess, because she was sitting there as mild as a breeze, with head bent over a roll of parchment. Snapped from her distracted stated, she would have turned and gone straight from the room, but found her feet were planted. Appalled she stood slightly gaping and blinking, feeling her anger recede as her mortification magnified.

If only more people were there to bare witness to the prophesied but little believed day of days when the Duchess would be a gentle breeze or as at ease as a flowing river. Still as a pool, rippled not even by the leaf falling towards the surface, or in this case a young woman who's world fell with a far heavier weight than one insignificant piece of foliage. As the late afternoon gave way to the first hints of twilight being breathed on to the Cullin Mountains, it would seem that the serenity the world enjoyed mirrored naught the Principessa. Torches recoiled, offended by the heat exuded. It seemed the very pictures on the walls turned away as she stalked with a predatory gaze to devour everything that edict decreed she do nothing against. Choices were valuable, precious things in a world where the price of riches was the exchange of a free mind, a mute mouth for a voice, and the stifling of the soul. The Duchess looked up with a slight difference given the parchment's border meeting with the hinges of the oak door. Groaning in protest, the implement of entry and exit swung in confusion. Was the Principessa coming or going? Or was the earth standing still. What a contrast the sulking specter was against the woman clad in shades of ivory. Over the chemise was a pattern of diminished heather, split open where the chemise went to form the moon of the belly, for life was nearly seven months agone. It flattered her. Hindering no motion or causing much pain, the Duchess was not relegated to one room. She was not made to lay down but extended her every limb and whim as far as the eye could see, which saw the hems of a dark skirt gone stark still."Ye needn't be afraid. I dun nay lash out."

In an effort to retain some of her composure her gaze lowered with a crest of raven's wing lashes falling against cheeks that were still flushed from her earlier mental tirade. Seeing as there was little she could do by way of recovering from the sudden entry, she bobbed a deep curtsey. "My apologies, Your Grace. I knew not where I was going." That she had more than likely stumbled through the Duke and Duchess' personal apartments only further lent to her embarrassment. Were Bishop Rieti here, or her uncle no doubt she would have been caned for her impertinence. Fingers coiled against her skirts, the dampness springing to her palms as she tried to slow her breathing and come up with a proper explanation for her intrusion. There really wasn't one, but then she had never been in this position before and the euphoria of that failed to make its due course into her brain. Unable to chalk it up to an experience she would endeavor to do again, she stood there more or less like a statue, all but glaring at the Duchess. It wasn't her fault, surely but it seemed like where Ana-Catalina had no freedom, this woman had it all! Of course there was the small detail of the fact that her island would soon be under attack from forces abroad, but at this point in time, this singular second she didn't care. She wanted desperately to scream, or to slay a dragon. Drawing blood seemed like the perfect opportunity, but it was unlikely to happen any time soon.

Parchment was good company when containing the pictures it had, but the latitude and longitude lines were poor substitute for manners. It was time to turn the parchment down for a moment. Did she remember how to make an introduction? Pray, her manners may have gone weak for all her time inside of the many rooms and long, long corridors of Griffin Castle. Still, the mind retained image of who, too, resided within her walls. For Ana-Catalina's sake, she hadn't trounced through bed chambers or stumbled upon the Duchess' under things. Adam's private sanctuaries weren't invaded, all she had done was find her way through rooms of furnishings, books, and now charts. Unable to go any further, her journey would have taken her on to the East Wing and the Solarium, but fortunately she stopped somewhere between North, South, East, West, and common sense. "Tha's alright. Rise m'lady. When ye dun know yer way about, the good thing is after some wanderin' yer bound tae figure it out. Have ye nay been 'ere awhile?" The dark hair swinging haphazard across angry eyes indicated an obvious feminine trait, "It's good tae wander some when ye feel put off. Find a place tae be, all the same." According to popular fable, the Duchess was not the common sort that Ana-Catalina would have fraternized with. Her skin was pale now but still held the signs of a life in the sun with slightly freckled cheeks. Her English was unyielding in how thick it was. Still, her voice was a song of life that Ana must not have ever sung. The girl looked passionate but never had the chance to feel it. She seemed frustrated. Ah, youth. A cosseted life and regimen couldn't undo the need for youth to rebel against prescription that told them the only way to be was that. "Seem like ye have somethin ye may want tae say though."

Swallowing past the lump of the irritated scream she wanted so to let loose, she let out instead a quiet breath as she rose and stood once more in the presence of the Duchess. That she bloomed with life was apparent, but then she had been within the same condition as when first Ana-Catalina arrived. Seemingly a bit larger now then, she kept her eyes from staring at the concealed bulge and instead squared her shoulders, jutting her chin up just enough as if to fend off any blow that might come after her apology. It was obvious the habit was a learned one, since there was no recriminations which obviously she had been waiting for her mouth opened only to close with an audible click. Smooth as her brow was, it furrowed as she tried in vain to find some chastisement beneath the Duchess' words. "I have been here some four months, Your Grace." Oddly her tongue felt as if it had swelled, and had to be peeled from the roof of her mouth. It was no doubt a product of having clenched her jaw so hard. "I am not allowed to roam the castle unduly without an escort. I ... I have rarely left my apartments." Which was all truth and no lie. Her eyes still seemed to boil, yet the glittering surface of them could have been attributed to tears yet to be cried. "I did not mean to breech your quarters, and apologize." Of course, she wasn't sure if that was what the Duchess meant, but it was honestly the first thing that came to mind given the situation. If such news got out, she knew there would be hell to pay, but then had her uncle not cautioned her to seek the company of her peers? Had he meant her peers by status or by age? Confused, and no little hurt by her dinner with him earlier she still recoiled over the thought that she might be so suddenly given freedom when it had been outlawed to her before.

Noble born people were so fascinating to Beathag. They sought justification for breathing unattended but for it normal to stand in a crowd just to touch the hem of their sleeves. A vast difference had been dealt in the roll of dice among the people with the name Obar Dheathain, or Aberdeen, as it was now known. With a history of service to the nobility, some became it themselves but were married to it, not born. They were the children of chieftains but not the richest among their peers. Her memories were full of things like dirty, naked feet that got tucked up under wool dresses when her family gathered beside the hearth. Silks and brocade could be confining as the Duchess found out but was determined to fashion a new mold to shape them. "Ah see," no, there was no recourse in her words. No scrutiny, only the judgement that is the plainest to see. The obvious, as it were, "Well then mayhaps tis good ye breeched m'quarters or m'anythin, fer tha' matter. Tis utterly silly tae gae tha' long 'neath a roof and hardly see one another, do ye nay think so?" If such news escaped that she was asked to produce a free spoken thought, they might have all fainted. Beathag was not false so perhaps that was the most thing that caught her off balance. Rising to stand nearby, the full height of she overshadowed the little princess. The fever of Ana's anger proved to be as vibrant in the sparks of her hair, pulled back by a mere braid with the end tucked beneath the nape of the neck and held by a silver comb. "Strange thing is ye breeched o' all places a room tha' can tell ye a way tae go anywhere in the world." On the floor was a mosaic of Turas Lan. A woman at the North-East was now identified as her mother, and the other women and men faces of generations shared between Adam and she. Some were the faces of old people in the city. All made this world go round.

Born and bred from birth into the cloistered annals of Italian aristocracy, she had been fostered away from her family in the household of her uncle where nothing warm dwelled. She recalled even now that Alphonse d'Este's had a room such as this, but within it were the preserved remains of his enemies, kept to be a reminder that one must always be vigilant. One must always resort to violence. Ana-Catalina had never believed that until now, with this latest betrayal, one she had be assured would never happened there was nothing left in her but the need for violence. Being reminded that she was a guest within their household and subject to their whims and charity, she felt her cheeks go hot once more. "I am ever grateful for you hospitality to my person and my household, Your Grace. I mean no insult by not ... partaking of your person. It simply was not allowed to me until now." Of course, that she found Beathag in the first place was a small miracle. She had been told that the Duchess was protected by a rather large contingent than was necessary but she hadn't been stopped save a single moment. Had she spoken to the guard, or just glared at him? One might have wondered, but such was the way of those gifted from birth with royalty. They seemed able to enter or leave as they pleased, a feat which she had been denied until now. Regarding the mosaic on the floor, Ana-Catalina could surmise that they were leagues away from her home in Naples, but Scotland seemed frightfully close. "I have only ever seen a single map room such as this. Your study is well noted, stocked I mean to say." Her voice held culture, and breeding but as with any time she was faced with the prospect of somewhere ... anywhere else in the world save the few rooms she had been relegated to there was a underlying hint of desire. Giovanni had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in her voice and now she knew that because it, she had opened herself up to the betrayal which seemed to sting all the more. Clasping her hands tightly together until the flesh along her knuckles went white, she tried in vain to see how there might ever be a solution to her plight found in a mosaic.

"The world is a map waitin' tae be drawn a thousand times n' a thousand times again. Ah e'en have maps o' yer Italy. Twas one o' m'favorite ports when m'vessel traded there, when I had Aodhan..n' when he was still vera small I took the coin his father 'ad left me n' combined the lives we both had known. He was a merchant, ye see." A story told was a story to be recorded by another. Did ears open as she talked of a life un-royal with work and the lot of the commoner? "Ah was an inn-keep with a head fer business, n' m'life was reared by the sea sae it made sense tae take 'pon it, tae finish wot he had started in Scotland and in a few years, had traveled hither n' yon. Some of these books o' maps Ah purchased here but..many o'them picked out 'cross the world n' used tae sit on tha' desk."[i/] She went to the instrument of rose-wood from the African continent, tapping it gently with her fingers. "Tis a good place. Ah like tae read 'ere..o' late Ah'v etaken tae hopin' bein' here will give some o' tha' sea want tae the babe. But Ah ramble, come. Ye can partake o' m'person as much as ye'd want since ye rightfully found it."

That the woman she spoke with now, who would be anointed a Duchess by that of the Pope himself had been a commoner made her question the validity of her own noble birth. What was nobility but an accident of Fate? Moved, if unsure why by the tale, she listened as she might have any traveler who brought news of something else. Though she was private by necessity rather than nature, she regarded the floor once more before speaking and her voice was softened by memory. "Our home was by the sea. My rooms faced out to it, so I always heard it until I was ten or so. My brother took my rooms after I left. He ... He liked the sea very much. I should think he would have been a sea-captain if he had not drawn the fate of being a Prince." She felt them then, the quick sting that burned its way across her eyes. Alonso was never going to be a sea-captain, nor a prince, nor a king for that matter now. It was still fresh, that hurt, not even a month old since his loss and with it all her hope for there to be any light in her life. Another quiet breath, and she drew herself further inward. "We have many maps in Italy. With so many City-States divided by His Holiness, and the King of Naples to the south, we have the holdings of d'Este's ... that of Ferrara, Modena and Reggio, of Parma and Bologna to the north. West of the City-States is the kingdom of Verona." She nearly married a man from there, but now ... now she was going to suffer worse than that and marry her own chamberlain. Spreading like a heated fist, the cramping of her stomach seemed to include her lungs so that taking a breath made it feel as if her own ribs her stabbing her to death. Regarding the taller woman, Ana-Catalina wasn't certain what she sought, nor how to ask. But there was a little part of her that wanted comfort, the sort of which she might have turned to her dead companion, Lucrezia for once upon a time.

"Fate can draw ye as one things, but some things change." If landless knights and dock merchants were rescued by Templar Knights, if old injustice had lay in wait for them to solve...if such people had Turas Lan and all of Skye as inheritance than only God truly knew what a man was capable of. And a woman, for that matter! Standing on the same height as other peers meant that it was rare for a man to look down on her. Equality was a myth and freedom a dream to the fair. Beathag listened as the only sense of escape for Ana came from describing a place by the sea and a beloved brother. The elder woman smiled as the young seemed to drift outward until she was caught on her own words. Knitting her brow together, she said, "Skye is a vera long way from tha' home by yer warm sea. Ah can nay truly tell ye why they sent ye 'ere, but maybe after four months ye may make a little better o' it." The descriptions of city-states were interesting to Beathag. Looking to the wooden map of Italy hanging opposite them, she was able to follow each place with each direction offered. She had come so far, this woman. She turned from the map because unlike Italy, a woman was not always so readable with just direction. You had to look at her. "M'brother Caldaen was for the sea, but he was more o' a rovin' poet Ah think. Brycean, if horses were boats than a Captain he would 'ave been. M'brother Eamonn can nay stand boats sae tha' leaves me. The sea is freedom. Beauty n' power. Despair n' rebirth. It is all things. N' when it touches the land ye love n' shows the way to others, we can see where we are gaeain n' where we've been. Tha' sea is not so clear for ye now, is it lass?"

Enveloped in the loss of him, in the loss of the one person to her who had never had anything but good within them she failed to see that she wore it on features as one might wear their heart on their sleeve. "I can think of only a single reason why I was sent here, so far from my home by the warm sea." Yet she dared not utter it, because to do thusly would mean she had an even greater chance of losing her head from her shoulders. With her out of Italy, it left only her father, mother and brother in Naples. And with her father ill then dead himself, Maria-Catalina her mother and her brother were all that stood between herself and the throne of Naples. Not such a great nuisance for one such as her uncle and it appeared he would accomplish all he set to do. Listening to Beathag, she wondered how different her life might have been had she more siblings. Would she have been an indulged daughter, with more of a carefree life by that rolling sea, in the shadow of the great Mount Vesuvius? Drawing a breath, she endeavored to produce a wane smile but it came short because she just wanted to run, as far as possible from everything it seemed. "I am to marry my own chamberlain." Her voice cracked, because up until now it had been to hard to voice. "I do not wish to marry him, but my uncle says that none of my other suitors will be loyal to Naples." If she held together now, it might have been miraculous act of God that allowed it. "Loyal to Naples! As if he has any desire to see me happy, as if the merest chance of it were possible." Thick, and hot her voice rolled out tinted with the round vowels and soft consonants of her homeland. It was not beyond her to stamp her foot as an errant child might, but she was teetering there at the brink between when one is a child and when one is an adult. "And what good is his oath over any others? They lie! All of them will face you, and give you lies!" Had she a dagger handy, she might have made of use it.

"Mm." A few words said volumes. The room was thick with volumes, but for all that they showed what was more plain than one of the people from her books transplanted halfway around the world. A thousand miles or mere hundreds. Losswas a language spoken between them, and had they both not known English, they still would haven spoken similar. Testing the waters with incentive, she put a hand gently against the back of the Italian Princess who had never so much as walked from a room without a company of people seeking to connect themselves with an illusion of splendor. Coaxing her gently toward the door on the far end of the study, it was not the one that went out to where the main corridors but another that went to a different wing. Opening a whole in France, she said, [/]"Come, walk with me."[/i] Walk to a place where the world could not burden or the voices of others harass. Forced marriages for the sake of land and honey-coated lies. "This is wot the world is made of, n' e'en more so when the wolves are more than sheep. Their bite is harsh n' the scars are many n' deep. Ye either, in some eyes, become the wolf or the lamb tha' lays down tae be sacrificed. Aye, they do look at you. They lie. Ah thought tae tell a lie from truth n' found the skill sorely challenged n' my time 'ere. Your lot sounds harder yet. Ah dun know wot it is to be enobled by blood. M'mother was the King's high harper, n' became this Isles sage. Honor tha' may be, we were still a sort of high servant in the end well rewarded. But she saw, Ah imagine, the same as her lady cousin endured, who much like ye was given up to the jaws. But there is a strangeness in a Celt woman. Have ye noticed tha' e'ere, M'lady?"[/color]

Numbly she moved her feet coaxed by the hand upon her back, they left the room of maps and books for another. Although she knew they did not walk far, nor long it felt almost endless to her. It seemed she would forever be walking some corridor, in some strange place that was not her own. "It is not what the world is made of? It is everything that Italy is made of. I have rarely ever seen or heard of someone speaking truth and meaning it." Still heated, her voice was oddly emboldened by the fact that she would say as she pleased at this very moment. It might not be a moment that ever came again and she seemed to grasp it as a drowning man might the line thrown from a ship in a rolling sea. "I to be neither wolf or lamb. I want to be me, but what sense is there in that when even that is dictated to me. I am ever biddable, and seem to wish only to do so much as to bring honor to my uncle's household. Honor. Should I butcher the whole of his enemies, then I would be honored." Wretched. She thought it wretched that it would come to her choosing, yet she knew if she were given free reign she would be as treacherous as her uncle. And carry a soul just as blackened. Alonso had been her boon, keeping away the dark and now he was gone so there was nothing left but to embrace that darkness. "My uncle thinks the Celts forward, brazen and without a shred of decent virtue among them. But he has been counseled that I should seek the company of my female peers to better learn the management of estates so that when I am returned to Naples ... I am ... challenged." Derision riddled the cool undertones of her voice, yet the softness remained. "He thinks because I am considered the weaker sex physically that my brain might be faulty as well." Stopping dead in her tracks, with her hands fisted so tight that the edge of her nails cut into her palms, she wanted to scream again. "I am not flighty. Nor do I recall being considered stupid." Lips curled over teeth that would have been a credit to her smile, she continued on again, venting anger like a hearth might give off heat. In rolling waves.

"There are lions, there are lambs, n' then there is the shepard who leads n' the hunter who keeps the wolf at bay. Both o' these are done by the determined, who use their mind tae be all things n' neither o' wot they do not want tae be. Yer family's name is everythin'. Their place in the world, yer place. Ah understand." Agreement was easy to reach in that factor. There was not a day that went by any member of the household did not think on this before or aft of them. A legacy followed generation to generation, but here it was written a might different than the status quo. Tapestry they passed, and painted image on stone. The city in bygone years, the castle in brighter times where feasts were held. Could she hear them laughing, singing? The shuffle of slippers as dances were had. That pretty time had hosted a villany that faulted on Skye to this day. As she stopped cold Beathag watched her, saying, "Good. Ye realize ye are nay a fool, do nay seem one tae me." Wry grin lifted one half of her face before the other one followed. The years belied her a somewhat ageless face, for despite the crease lines against her eyes, they were from a great deal of laughter to couple the mourning done. "I take it yer chamberlain has nay care for yer head as much as he would fer the gold on yer head n' the fact ye body would be on his arm n' in his bed. Yer holdings would be his." turning on to continue, the subject turned a little slight track back to the Celts. "We are brazen, n' brash, but our virtues are apparent Ah'd think. On our sleeves. We love our families n' our lands n' there is nothin' we would nay do to see tha' our Freedom is intact, includin surrender our souls, tae which many Scots did when the Bruce became King. E'en now, as the land itself is split n' we are near a kingdom here in our own way..it still does nay change. Nay matter the country a Celt is a Celt. Ah suffer from the same maldy m'self. Och, realizin' Ah be flawed mind you." Flawed? Time of era decreed that thought. Already it was evident as to why, and hadn't her husband encouraged her to remain the same? Was not her husband similarly insistent? The stories of how he commandeered the position of Scotland's Guardian from a tyrant King must read like insanity to the rest of Europe. Turning a corner they came to a wide place of stained glass windows, fires, and books. A library that rivaled m any libraries for Turas Lan was full of books in such quantities they were sold on the squares. Knowledge was plentiful and powerful. "But ye accept yer faults as part o' yerself n' they prove useful as the years gae by. M'faults enabled me survival. If yer bein' born a woman is a 'fault' I assure ye, it will spare yer life as your years go by."

Making tough choices did not always mean a desirable outcome in the end, but it was something she was growing more and more sure of that she would have to do. "He dances to which ever tune my uncle plays." Not that he had ever looked at her as anything other than respectfully, she couldn't deny that there was something strangely disagreeable about him. It was perhaps the way his eyes ... No! Rather than think about it, she merely shuddered instinctively. "If I had to marry him, I think I would honestly throw myself from the closest rampart and be done with whatever life was left open to me. There is something about him that makes my skin crawl." What of course, she didn't know nor would she. He was a private man, and one of power in her household. She rarely questioned him or his motives, and the one time she had, she had ended up paying penance with five lashes to her hands thanks to the Bishop Rieti. "I do not think it will spare me in Italy that I am a woman. After all ... we are not physically matched to a man. It takes little to kill us." And the bitter fact of that rankled no matter how hard she tried to hide it. "What do you do when there all you feel is the need to hurt someone. Someone who has hurt you as equally deep." Had she the strength she would have strangled Giovanni where he stood. It was not a prospect she might have looked forward to at any other time than now. But at the moment all her world encompassed revenge for the first time in her life.

There were times a ruler swallowed themselves for the good of a nation because they were the heart of that nation. There were times that Ana-Catalina had been trained while Beathag went on instinct or what was advised, but more were the times that those of Skye ruled with their own thoughts, their own hearts, and only learned to temper their emotions and express differently the thoughts. "Now deprivin' yerself of life is nay the answer. Fer A Christian, tha' is a sin last Ah recall," no cross at the Duchess' throat, and her Sundays were spent herein. "n fer a lass with stuff n' her head tha' is desperation swayin' yer sense. Now, a woman will spare ye because o'the stuff between yer ears n' the vigor in yer resolve but ye must temper tha' on yer own. Women, though, are born with a lot o' it. Ye dun see men givin' birth? All the battlefields they see they cower at birth. Givin' life is powerful. Sustainin' it is powerful. Keepin' the home and bein' all tha' stands between it n' misery is powerful. So therein ye are powerful. Ah think, ye should begin to consider the fact tha' if ye think..ye may have to begin to weight what is more important tae ye, m'dear." The sort of words were what her uncle found disgusting. Gross abandonment of place! Taking a seat she rested her feet and put her hand gently atop her belly. Thrumming her fingers atop it she tilted her head to the mantle. "Tell me wot ye see there." There was a Norwegian battle axe, a rim of knotworked wood leaning against the wall. A shoulder piece of plate armor, some small joining stone.

Hanging onto her anger she kept her mind opened to the possibility that not all things would be as they seemed. And not every opinion would matter. But then how was she to learn which ones should and which should be discarded? "I had not thought to giving such a thing credence. That being a woman and depriving myself as a sin." Duly instructed that it could possibly one, she endeavored to pray over it later. One of the faithful Ana-Catalina was, but it was like her lineage something she was born and bred to. When Beathag spoke of child birth and how men cowered, she felt her cheeks grow hot as a tentative smile eased its way over her features with a subtle shake of her head. Clearly the subject of childbirth or how such happened was strictly out of the bounds of her current education. What she had was idle, if not grossly exaggerated gossip thanks in part to her maids. Ever dutiful, for that too seemed to be a learned trait she turned toward the mantle and studied the items there as if she were going to be asked to give a detailed dissertation. When she found the same sorts of items she might in her own home in Naples, she frowned. "Arms. I see arms and armor, Your Grace." Whatever else there was to see there, it was beyond her at the moment and she felt as if perhaps she might be a little faulty because she couldn't see it. Or rather, wouldn't.

"Sae throwin' yeself from a rampart is silly, if nay bad fer yer soul n' sellin' yerself short fer a tuppence instead o' a gold piece is just as terrible. A woman might still be a the sort o' tenderness n' still have her strength. M'mother ne'er wielded a weapon a day in her life but fer bein' herself, n' with harp n' hand, it gave one cause tae listen tae what was in her heart. Seems tae have worked for generations." She grinned softly, noting even more a reason to chuckle at the pink cheeks of Ana. [/i]"Flushed n' fawnin' as a spring flower! But recall tha' m'girl. A man will wish tae till ye fields but he will hardly be about for the harvest!"[/i] Bawdy jokes trickled so easy off her tongue the girl's face might stay pink with a slight embarrasment while Beathag's grew ruddy with humor. To the mantle again gazed turned. To the recitation of arms and armor. "A life. You see a life. The shoulder plate is from the Duke's old suit o' armor, the joinin' stone is from the house he had built us in which we ne'er lived. The wood is from m'old ship before it was rebuilt..n' the axe is my axe. All pieces of a life. Now, Ah realize ye will nay up n' bare arms in such a way as I did fer many, many years. Yours is a different sort o' war tha' requires a different sort o' weapon. The villiany of words. It is somethin' I learned far later n' life fer I did nay think I'd e'er be a harper but fer the shortwhile I was a hall harper when I was a clansmens wife. Then a chieftains widow. Then a raider, a prisoner, a rover n' meal giver. A prisoner. Mother tae, was a vera late thing. I realized softness n' remembered wot it was tae have the heart of a woman later. You have those now, but what you ought realize while yer young is the strength in those things. Wot has yer uncle told you about the Duke n' m'self, n' our court?"[/color]

Head shaking she wandered before the hearth, black silk hissing now against the pop and crackle that warmed there in. Startled by Beathag's words, she continued to feel the heat from her own skin rather than that of the fire while trying desperately to keep as much of a straight face as was possible rather than gawk at her. "Your Grace has indeed a gift of tongue, for description." Her voice cracked a little, but thankfully the task of learning the meaning of the items on the wall saved her from the opportunity, no, the curiosity of asking just what the Duchess meant by the jest. Returning her heated face toward the arms and armor, she listened, ready to be told the countless tales of the virtuous men in Beathag's life. Ana-Catalina hadn't expect that items had belonged to her. Drawing in a soft gasp, she turned back toward the woman who sat, with one hand on her bulging belly. A wife and mother in utter repose yet she had taken up arms? Alarmed, but no little impressed she touched the axe's handle briefly, like one might touch a relic. "You bore arms. You've been so much to so many." With her hand just barely touching the handle, she looked then over her shoulder. "It suits you, being so much to so many." Knowing that her path would be different, she left the mantle and stood near the Duchess then. "That I was to obey, that is what I was told. He wished you as allies and I was to conduct myself in a manner that would continue the political alliance between his holdings and yours. If need be, he would have offered a ransom for my person should anything have turned sour." She said it with such practiced skill, that it was obvious that in Italy, things were done thusly. "My uncle has interests in England he would protect, and interest abroad that hinge on who rules Scotland. Perhaps he felt that your standing was the stronger." Sitting then, she regarded Beathag as if a light were dawning. "You do not know, do you?" Surprised that she knew something before anyone else was a heady thing. "The Pope has been here, has seen your way of life and is of the mind that both you and the Duke are in the right of this whole debacle. He means to dictate to the world that Skye is sovereign unto itself. Such a thing could make you very powerful to the other countries and very dangerous to anyone else who seeks to rule Scotland." Of course, what did Ana-Catalina know, she was a woman.

"Sae Ah've been told. But it is only truth tha' is spoken, nothin' more. A man will want ye but will hardly want tae stand by n' witness all it entails tae get what he seeks. Heirs. Legacy. N' much the same, any, man or woman will try tae gae through you n' rape ye of how ye believe, feel, n' stand for things if it means they have wot they wish in the end. M'child, at 36 Ah've outlived 2 husbands. Adam is m'third." The honesty was blunt but necessary, because all women were destined at times to be with more than one man, "Our son, as ye've noticed, is called the Ebony Prince with good reason. In bein' many things to many..it grows tirin, but at the same time..I felt rage just like ye are now. E'en to have swung tha' axe was nay to cure e'ery ill in my world. It ne'er restored the lives tha' were most precious only took those tha' would take others. Fine n' noble ,yes, but nay less painful. Like ye..I was vera young when tha'," she tilted her head to the axe, "found a way tae m'hand n' m'harp for many years was last n' lost. Adam's life was here n' little did he know it for like ye, he was kept from the whole of his heritage as it was wanted by someone else . Oh m'dear...the Pope n' Ah have spoken. Wot in creation the man finds so amusin' about a heathen woman I will ne'er know..but there it is." Taking in the keen notes of Ana's observation she nodded "Ah thought as much. He had spoken with Adam on it but he was not sure how I felt 'pon the matter. As it is,M'lady...your Chamberlain will nay tell you King Robert Bruce is dyin. Tha'is right, the savior o' Scotland from England. The man who had all o' scotland exocommunicated fer seein' him King is dyin'. He has had it decreed tha' we are to be no less than Arch Duke n' Duchess, n' no less than princes of the realm beside. Adam has many friends in many places, many treaties n' ye Uncle will nay favor tha' much if others in yer country side with Adam n'nay him. Seems we have raised a rabble, tae carry ye all beyond the sea." She laughed at that and looked up to her, "Oh it has been a time. A time indeed. Sae ye are as mixed up in mah intrigues as Ah am in yours then." Her forehead was taken in hand, temples rubbed as she found the humor in a dark situations of the past, "Ah've lost track o' the number of knives n' arrows tha' have gone throw mah family o'er the years and in recent times, how many times they tried tae kill m'brother, m'husband...m'court. Me."

Though she was noble by birth that did not mean that there would be a peaceful life awaiting her when she returned to her native land. That was what she took from her conversation with the Duchess, but it did not discourage her, nor did it change how she felt about her most recent betrayal. When Beathag spoke of the Pope, she smiled a little then again. "He is a good man, his Holiness. A man who holds that office need not always be a good man, but in him I see no reason that he would hold a grudge against you. And if he feels that perhaps the souls of Scotland can be saved by favoring you and your husband, then that is his wish and there is not fault in it. He does the work of God, but that does not also mean that there are those in his service that do the work of others for the gain of gold and land." Shoulders shuffling, she did the unthinkable, well ... at least to Lucrezia it had been unthinkable and shrugged. "We are not known for our goodness, we Italians. Each house, each kingdom within the City-States is embroiled in their own petty affairs, but those among us who have greater power stretch it into the courts of others. I would apologize, but these intrigues are not of my own hands work. I am a pawn being moved by the hands of another." And the hands of one man were likely to be cut from his body. That Beathag and she had spoken did not lessen her recent acquisition of bloodlust. "Naples, nae all of Italy was built on poison and steel so it is said. And of course, on the will of the church, though I doubt such is true." Folding her hands once more, she imagined that at some point ... someone would come looking for her. After all, the hour was growing later, and she had not returned. Or would they leave her to the winds, uncaring? Frowning, she breathed in and looked at the axe again. Perhaps she could borrow it?

"With a mind such as yours twould be a pity tae toss it from a rampart. M'thinks in light o' this, ye should consider the nature o' yer own power. If a man would grow by ye because of tha' power, n' seeks obdience, ye may challenge yer course. Ye know wot they think ye do not, n' more than they bargained for. If ye are here, then your Uncle's investments in our country are far more. We are at war. Tha' gaes without sayin'. It is a strange ill bodin' thing tae stick royalty in the midst of it, nay? Ah hardly think they are just watchin' either. Wot Ah'd suggest is being mindful, n' careful..n' quick. There is a war, too, of words being waged. Ye must find the power to change tha' m'dear. Marryin' yer Chamberlain sounds as though then it may nay bode well fer if he makes yer skin crawl, there is a very likely n' vile reason why. " She saw how she watched the axe, and the liklihood of that tiny woman hefting it was so slight it made her chuckle. All the same, she cleared her throat. Tapping the distracted woman's shoulder, she was able reach to one of her sleeves and draw out a slender dirk. Generally meant for the stocking, her ability reach down was a might limited these days. Passing it over to her, she said. "Then it is in your heritage tae fight. Keep tha' as a reminder o' tha', n' should ye e'er need to use it. I will send word tae ye chambers tha' I wish yer company as a lady within the house tae another. If ye must learn tae manage estates than by all means." High grin came. "Learn ye will."

She was being given a gift here and it was not beyond her to understand just what that was. That her uncle wouldn't have agreed was a given, and all the more reason for her to listen and do so well while in Beathag's presence. Nodding slowly, she began to see the greater picture that had until now been beyond her scope to grasp. "With a war, there is the possibility of my being a casualty. And since Naples would be without an heir from the house of deCervillion, it would pass unimpeded to my uncle. He is counting on bloodshed. That we arrived in the winter he had not fore seen. He thought we would be here by high summer, but Lucrezia became sick and we could not progress as quickly as we should have." It fell then, the small pieces she needed to see her uncle's greater endgame. She lived, that was a problem since her uncle couldn't simply wrestle control of Naples from her. He needed her so that the people would not rise up at having an overlord in the person of a member of the house of d'Este's. And stupidly, she had signed him into the regency. It made her doubly mad now at Giovanni, because she had been so struck by his fealty so easily given to her uncle that she had signed with a certain numbness overcoming her. Taking the knife gently, she watched the fire dance from its surface and knew that perhaps she might use it soon. And well if it came to it in the end. "Perhaps I might have need of it sooner than was thought possible." Her voice held an edge to it now, the softness no detractor from the determination of it. Returning the Duchess's smile, she rose and tucked the knife away in much the same fashion as she had seen her remove it. "I should return to my apartments before I am admonished." And an admonishment she might get, from none other than the man she thought she was to marry. "He has ... strange eyes, my chamberlain." Shrugging again, a habit she could well take to, she bobbed a deep curtsy. "By your leave, Your Grace?" Soon enough she would be Queen, and she wondered what she was going to call Beathag then? Friend hopefully.

"He believes we shall be seiged or ye i na position tae be sieged. Hmm. Yer people are downright enchantin' at this rate," Ana-Catalina must have had hours of ceaseless amusement either being bored to tears or fending for her young life among wolves. Such a lamb she was! The interest she took in her was almost motherly but the matter must be handled politically. Beathag was not as much as an oaf as the Chamberlain might have fancied her to be. On the contrary her tempered sense derived from that of business sense, and she could outbarter, outsell ,or tie any competition with her eyes shut. "Ah yes. N' ye should remember the way sae tha' next time ye take out on yer own or I call fer ye, ye might find a nice place in the castle tae think on yer own, tae. There be plenty." When she was Queen in a few days and then the Pope decreed them sovereign, one hoped the interlude would foster an alliance. In truth, the world was made by women. Men were just simply too full of themselves to realize it.

Though the Duchess might have thought them 'enchanting' for some odd reason, Ana-Catalina thought perhaps she was slightly addled. Her life had been one of constant fear. Of course, all that had doubled with the death of her brother who would have been King of Naples. Her life was worth quite a bit to many people, but to whom she knew not. "I shall endeavor to find a place for my own thoughts, Your Grace." Of course, that would all depend on how her husband ruled their household. Ana-Catalina knew that it would not be a free a household as that Beathag enjoyed. It was disheartening at best, but she didn't show it at least on her face. If she were anything like her uncle though, she would find a way to dispose of her husband. She was if anything, Italian. Surely it was possible to do so and not taint the whole of her soul? Chewing her lip in thought she settled herself with the thought that she had the dagger if anything and took the same way which she had come before, only this time it was with a head bowed and cheeks flushed. After all, it wasn't every day she showed her face anywhere but the few rooms of her own apartments or on the same floor as they![/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

The Understanding[/u]

When Ferrara dismissed him, Seithfed felt a warm glow settle in his heart even while his mind felt weighed down by the mission set before him. Satisfaction was responsible for the warmth -- and soon, he would complete his vows to the principessa by informing her of his success. But first, a score must be settled with the viper, and he had to admit, he was more than a little amused at the idea of erasing Don Marcos' smug look of superiority from his lecherous face. He let the door to Ferrara's room shut behind him. Though he wore the courtly sword and dagger, this was no place for armed conflict. His goal was to pound a few lumps into d'Ercole's head. Were it a duel, against the inexperienced chamberlain, there would be no honor. Seithfed's dark eyes swept the room for the chamberlain, and finding the man, stepped before him, shifted his weight subtly to one leg, and 'informed' the chamberlain of his loss with a swift but forceful blow to the jaw. "I am no preux chevalier, d'Ercole," he said calmly, flexing the fingers of his right hand before settling them back into a fist. "And I fear my tolerance for men such as yourself grows slighter with each passing year." Whether d'Ercole fell or remained standing after such a quick blow, Seithfed never punched a man without expecting a return. It was only ... gentlemanly.

As the door to the Duke's apartments opened, he expected that his servants might beckon him forward what with the man's niece at the ready for her supper with her uncle. What he had not expected was the face of the man he was slowly coming to hate. Giovanni no doubt was just coming from a dressing down, and since Alphonse had all but promised Ana-Catalina to him, it gave him cause to hold fast to his thoughts that the man stalking toward him was all but a singular point of contention. Just as he was going to open his mouth to disavow the man of ever setting foot near the princess he wound back one fist and collided with his jaw in such a manner that for a second he saw only a brilliant flash of light as he feet stumbled back, his arms outreaching for purchase. Catching himself before he fell embarrassingly onto his backside, he grasped one hand to his injured jaw while the other helped to afford balance. "You are not anything now, Seithfed, Giovanni or whatever else you call yourself." He could feel that a few of his teeth were loose, and that the edge of them had collided with the soft underside of his cheek so that he tasted his own blood. Sneering he pivoted his own weight and rather than sock the man, he gave him a sharp slap across the face. He thought the action demeaning, which is what he had endeavored to do. "You will be beneath me, and then you may cease to exist all together. What do you think of that?" Clearly he was of the belief that Giovanni's suit had been turned down, otherwise he wouldn't have been so forward with his thoughts.

He was shocked at the slap, but quickly burst into derisive laughter. "I am nothing? Perhaps you should think of your career, and what you are to do when I am by the grace of God, of the Neapolitans and the Duke of Ferrara, your sovereign." He grabbed the man with both hands, hauling him off his feet by clenching his fists around the fabric of d'Ercole's shirt. Seithfed was not particularly tall, but a life at sea had given him a sinewy, muscular physique. A career of instigating and finishing fights in taverns had taught him how to use that physique. He did not look capable of throwing anyone against a wall, but he did then, slamming the chamberlain hard against the unforgiving surface. "I know your type, Don Marcos. You are too hasty to part with information gained, and too slow of wit to play this game with me. If you doubt my loyalty, you are doubly traitor. And a traitor's death," he concluded slowly, shoving the man once again against the wall, "is a distinctly ... unpleasant affair."

What he had expected of the man, and what seemed to be the truth of him were two vastly different things. Where he expected a coward, recently dressed down and pitiful, the man proved otherwise. His news shocked him speechless, but being shoved against a way prompted him to action. "You will never reach Naples. Either of you." He knew his composure slipped and that his words were said in haste, but there was nothing but truth if not hatred in his eyes. "What know you of traitors save that you will be one in the end!" Their scuffle drew a few curious looks from the servants of the Duke, but they were instructed not to interfere or disturb the Duke unless it was the Pope. So they watched on in silent awe as the Chamberlain, no mere man of words and intrigue craned back his head against the wall, only to smack it dead on into his opponents face.

"I know that until you believed the principessa within your power, you were a good and obedient servant poised for great reward. But bitterness has twisted you. I know you for a murderer and conspirator. Do not add treason to your list of crimes." His words were torn away from him when d'Ercole's head suddenly thumped against his own. He saw red, nothing but red, as he stumbled back. He felt something warm trickle down his forehead and growled, charging with his own head lowered into d'Ercole's chest, slamming him backward when they made contact and immediately drawing his fists up to protect his face. "You will pay for the women who died, knave! They had naught to do with you!" He had hoped to feel the man out for information regarding the women's deaths, but the time for subtlety had now passed completely.


Though he was not a slight man by any means was for a certain, and his years had been wrought by the skillful hand of men well versed in the art of intrigue and murder. Nothing prepared a man for being brutally beaten, or to beat others. It took years and skill, both of which Giovanni seemed to have in spades. He felt all the air leave his lungs as he was bodily slammed back into the wall, and he had no choice but to try and throw the man off. His breath wheezed as he swung a little wildly. "What I have done, I did for her. She was mine!" His words tasted vile as he saw for a certain his ultimate prize slip away. "Naught? They had ... everything. Sinful harlots. Whores each and everyone of them." He was a man of many talents, with ears in many places. The recent death's and to whom they were associated were known to him. And the root cause was known but he saw no reason to give that information to this man. "You are a cur, the lowest scum on the sea." Swinging wildly again, he connected if only by sheer luck with the man's side, but he felt flesh give and it was a good feeling.

He wheezed, making his next blasphemous remark nearly indistinguishable from the noise of air attempting to enter his lungs again. "She was hardly. She despised you, and I happen -- to -- agree." He slammed his fist into d'Ercole's head once again, the other making contact with something fleshy -- a shoulder, perhaps? "You were responsible for those women, and I will make you pay. What is your game, to root out my identity? I give it to you now! Don -- Giovanni -- d'Este!" Each word was compounded by the thud of a fist against his flesh. "Christ Almighty, forgive me for taking a false name, it was to escape vile creatures such as this!" Had he been of more reasonable temper, he might have thought d'Ercole admitted his guilt too easily, but they were by no means sane at the moment. Too much had happened in the past several days, too many promises made, too many women buried. He knew d'Ercole was behind it. Why, to discredit him? To place the blame upon him? "Sinful harlots? If every woman I slept with deserved the title, that would make your life incredibly interesting. Your mother has the foulest mouth. I see where you inherited it."

His word was one of fists and of encroaching darkness. Each time one of Giovanni's fists connected to his head, he felt a strange detachment overcome his body. But he would not prove to be a weak opponent and struggled to keep his balance and return slug for slug. His lungs were on fire now, and they seared so that his mind recoiled from it. Swiping the back of one of his hands against his mouth he wasn't surprised when it came back bloody. Slicked from it, it slipped across the man's face with simply to much ease for it to have made a deeper connection but he was reeling from the sudden drop in blood pressure going to his brain. "I will kill you, just as those unrepentant whores were! Their ways are known, and they died deserving deaths." His voice rose an octave, nearly shrill, but he knew when a battle was lost. There was still a war however to deal with, and others who required his attention. He couldn't however leave without meting out a few more rounds.

"I think I will delight in being your sovereign," he grunted, slamming another punch into the side of d'Ercole's head. Heaven knew how many blows to the head a man could sustain and walk away without permanent damage, but they both seemed intent on proving the maximum amount. He staggered back at one blow, only to throw himself at d'Ercole until they both tumbled to the ground. This needed to end, and now. Though his vision was a haze of red, some part of him knew this was unseemly, no matter whose honor he was defending. And at just that moment, he had little idea if he was defending Ana-Catalina's or the unfortunate women who had died in the woods, and was ashamed to lump them into the same category. He really must learn to compartmentalize his rage. Though d'Ercole threatened that he would never arrive in Naples alive, he really had very little intention of ever going back to Italy. He knew for certain to be such a pawn of Ferrara's would be a mortal mistake, but he had yet to figure out the motive behind marrying off the niece when her very life was jeopardizing the consolidation of his power. And the wolves -- what had they to do with anything? Fortunately, the balance between physicality and his mental wanderings was nearly even. He was not so lost in the questions without answers that he missed d'Ercole's next words. "We are done." He rolled off of the chamberlain, stepped away, and frowned. It was a credit that the muscles of his face still worked after receiving so many hits, but very little else registered in the expression. "So are you, d'Ercole, should I see you near my betrothed in anything but official capacity. I will not be such a gentleman next we meet." He touched his left hand to the pommel of his sword, inclined his head, and left. Ferrara's servants could instruct the man to his next destination. Seithfed was no one's messenger.

Undone by the tumble taken to the floor he was satisfied with the fact that although Giovanni would have the upper hand, he was still the Master Chamberlain of the House when it came to Ana-Catalina's person. When Giovanni stood over him, he winced as he touched the tips of his fingers to his face, noting the swell of flesh below his eye. More blood seeped into his mouth from his cheek and he swallowed it bitterly. "If you think this at quits you are sorely mistaken, my lord." Rage built, and he wanted so to spit on the man but this was no place, nor was this the appropriate time for a dual of swords. That too, could come soon enough. "Think well when you wed her what it will mean if you sire a son on her." Easing himself to his feet, while remaining defensive, he was not yet finished with his own carefully laid plans. "Life is fragile, and a woman's especially as you know. And a pawn is only so good so long as they do as bid." His hatred for Giovanni was one thing, but he had a greater score now with his own master who gave him a false hope. Or perhaps he had done so, so that Giovanni might next be in his sights? Perhaps there was hope yet for his own suit. The time of playing the dutiful pawn was over for himself. Gottschalk had taught him better. [/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Crucial Contemplations[/u]


Though her unexpected conversation with the Duchess of Skye boded well for her esteem, it did little to soften the heat that still rolled in her veins regarding her suitor's betrayal. As she walked back toward the private apartments that seemed to have become more and more of a tomb of late, she wondered how in good conscious a man could promise something to one person and then turn around and promise the same exact thing to an opposing party? Worrying at her lower lip, she came only to the answer when she could not find any other excuse. No person of good conscious would, which meant that Giovanni hadn't one at all. Or had he? Ana-Catalina couldn't understand how her uncle could marry her to her own chamberlain and think that the man wouldn't try and grasp for power in his own right? With the loose of a quiet breath, she decided that the questions would only have an answer when she could employ someone without worrying over her misplaced trust. If such a day ever came that was!

Brisk, the fanned skirts of her gown seemed like a hard sheet of black, a color she had chosen specifically for dinner with her uncle because it was considered a modest and mature color though in reality she loathed how it made her look pale, even with the piping of gold braid on the sleeves and decorative collar. Careful not to bend her wrist to far one way or the other she contemplated the dagger hidden away in her sleeve not for the first time. Even as she thought about it, she grew angry knowing that should she be given the opportunity she might use it and draw blood. As she swept into her apartments, she called out to her maids. When she went unanswered she frowned and then went about looking for them. Being left long for a certain was a first and immediately drew her suspicion.

Just where was her household staff?

Hours after his meeting with Ferrara, he was in no better shape, but he had also given some attention to those scrapes and bruises. He had managed to flag down one of the seamstresses, and having very little desire to gain too much attention, had her put a few quick stitches into the cut on his forehead. After mopping up the blood, applying a leech for a few minutes to the hideous bulge forming near his left eye to vastly reduce the swelling, he was not precisely presentable, but he looked a good sight better than he had leaving Ferrara's residence. It was a brisk walk back to his inn room, where he changed out of clothes that looked as if he had been rolling around on the floor -- primarily, because he had -- gave his face a quick splash of water, and poured himself a stiff drink. God only knew what would happen next in this game of Ferrara's, but he knew what must be done for Ana-Catalina. She would enjoy the good news, for she had so little news that was good. He did not know how long she would be kept at dinner with her uncle, but in case it was a brief affair, he made his way back to the castle and combed his way through the hallways, thinking as he paced the familiar pathways. At a nod from one of her servants, he turned back down the way toward her rooms. The servant whispered something of d'Ercole's mysterious disappearance and the household in disarray, but considering the blows recently exchanged and the charges he had leveled, he was not as surprised as he should have been. D'Ercole was a lecherous, conniving coward. To run was perfectly within his nature. With the unvoiced running commentary of expletives keeping him amused, the walk back to Ana-Catalina's suite was quite short, and as he made his way through her door, was smiling despite how painful a gesture it was proving to be. "Madonna," he greeted, almost chipper, and swept a swift, courtly bow before rising. Despite their betrothal, boundaries must still be maintained, and he remained precisely where she was until she indicated he could approach. It was terribly awkward, and even moreso when he discovered she did not seem nearly as keen to see him as his ego demanded.

Though no stranger to violence, it startled her to be address while there was no one else seemingly about her suite of rooms. Turning quickly at the familiarity of the voice she briefly felt a sense of relief, then the swift reprising emotion of anger. It flared to life in those momentarily cool eyes of silver with a lift of a singular arching brow of black. "My lord Giovanni. Your presence surprises me." Head tilted regally, she did indicate that he should approach. Heavy did the dagger feel now, and she wondered if it was anticipation or apprehension that made it seem so. Though her jaw hurt to be clenched so, she kept the rest of her features fairly bland. The closer he came though, the more her anger boiled until it was like the curdling surface of a cauldron. "You have spoken with my uncle this evening, yes?" She would give him the opportunity, the chance but the marks on his face were easily read in her eyes as a precursor to his fealty given to her uncle and no doubt her husband-to-be, Marcos d'Ercole. Loathed as she was to think such, her temper remained leashed only until he was but an arm's length from it. It split away from her and it was almost as if she were watching what transpired from some other place, as if the woman drawing the keen little dagger from her sleeve and uneducatedly swinging it wild at the man standing before her was some other person. "How could you? Liar!" Screaming was a first for her, but she did so with great passion and no little worry for whomever heard. If her uncle had ears about, no doubt they would report back of the explosion, the loss of senses that erupted from the diminutive princess. That the man was injured did garner a note of sympathy but if he had confronted Don Marcos, then his injuries were no doubt a result of the friction between them, something Ana-Catalina knew little of.

His joy melted away nearly at once, as he dodged her first swipe, and then easily captured the knife-wielding wrist in his much stronger hand. Perhaps, in a better frame of mind, he would have enjoyed correcting how she held the weapon that she might stand a chance of winning her next fight, but he genuinely cared for Ana-Catalina. Her confusion and rage were powerful emotions, and he would not be heard if he was not equally forceful. She did not need an instructor. She needed a champion. So few of the men in her life stood up for her, so few knew what was necessary to protect her, and those that had the opportunity to do both had so often turned their backs to follow personal ambitions. As if turning her upon the dance floor, he pulled her knife-arm behind her back, and then plucked the blade from her fingers. Temper restrained for the moment, he did not curse as he wished to do, but instead held her until the tension left her body. "You may have your knife back when you are no longer so intent on stabbing me, principessa. Now, care you to explain yourself?" He had not lied to her, and was particularly concerned that all this kneeling and oath-making had been for nothing. Had they not left in decent terms? Did she not believe him truthful? He did not know what had changed between them, and for a scant second, wondered if Ferrara knew more of his niece's mental health than he was willing to let on. He called her "flighty," but was there not an element of madness in her eyes as she drew a knife on him? He bit off the thought. Madness was quite a different light than betrayal. She deserved his compassion, not his condemnation, as inexplicable as her wrath seemed to be. "Are you to kill me before we are even wed?" he added, much more gently, his grip already relaxing on her wrist, though she could be assured, any attempt to twist free would not be successful. He did not know why so many assumed him to be of little physical strength, but so far in his life, it had been an advantage to him not to challenge the assumption unless it was particularly needful.

She had not expected his quickness but then it had felt to her as if she were moving through some sort of thick cloud or syrup. Her arm restrained in his grip, she felt the bones of her wrist pinched in such a way that was not painful, but did not allow her to keep a hold of the dagger. Without its weight she felt powerless once again. To wield it had made her feel momentarily invincible, now she simply felt deflated as he asked just her to explain herself, and how she could attempt to kill him before they were wed. Confused, she shook her head violently, her jaw hardening until she felt a pain at the back of her head. "You swore an oath to me, to be honest and truthful ... then turned and gave your fealty to my uncle. How could you?! He told me himself that you are his man, and that you will do everything that he dictates! You've given me up to a monster! How can you call that protection?" She was mollified to find that her eyes stung over it, a hurt that was near as deep as the one she felt when news of her brother's death had reached her. She had believed Giovanni when he said that he would work to gain her trust and now this. Giving him her profile, she looked away, feeling the heat of her shame rising on her cheeks. "We are not to wed. He said so himself that I would wed Marcos Antonia d'Ercole." A man who her uncle had implied was even further beneath his thumb. Willingly so it was said, but then he had chided her gently that to have trust in Giovanni was sorely misplaced. She had been such a fool, she had thought when she had left her uncle's suite that only now could she begin to question the validity of her uncle's words.

"Antonia?" he asked, arching a brow she could not see. The derisive "hmph" added after the name escaped before he could contain himself. Given the day he'd had, it was the best he could do. He glanced heavenward for but a second, gathering his thoughts and seeking advice from a deity he did not particularly believe in. His explanation was not an easy one to make. It required delving deep into a history he had once been comfortable with, an oath he had gratefully parted with when he left Parma. He released her arm carefully, and took a graceful step away from her. "I did swear an oath to your uncle, when I was a boy a few years older than you are now. He, in turn, gave me the title to Vigolante. I was his man, once," he added, placing a firmer emphasis upon the was. "I am not proud of my history, principessa, but it is parcel to the man before you now. Well, beside you." He gently cleared his throat. It was a weak joke and deserved no more attention than a slight rise at the corner of his mouth. "I could not have hoped to survive as a vassal of the Duke of Ferrara if I did not participate in his business. It does not make me your uncle. It does not make me Don Marcos. I believe your uncle wished to place you off balance, principessa, by giving you such a falsehood. While your uncle is shrewd, I doubt he would ever choose d'Ercole over myself, much less the other suitors who came to court your hand. I suit his needs because he believes me forsworn and a coward. For now, this is far better than a doggishly loyal servant such as d'Ercole." He studied her briefly, the profile of her catching the light from the fire and etching her expressions in graver detail. "Do you believe me?"

It was hard for her to remember that there was such an age difference between them given the fact that she often felt far older than she was. Imagining him in his youth, and the weight of her uncle's power hanging ominously over him she could understand what it meant to give an oath that could not fully be discounted as truth with one's life hanging in the balance. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask how her uncle had wrested the oath from him yet refrained from doing so. It might be too personal a violation and no doubt since he had so long run from his past he did not care to revisit it. Released from his grip, she stood then with her hands clasped before her, still just as confused but honestly she could not find any anger in her now regarding his behavior. There was only a kernel of hatred that brewed still, a black mass she could not seem to smite. Hate for that of her uncle, a thing long instilled over the years and well hidden. "Don Marcos is ambitious. No doubt my uncle see's through to that." Her voice was quiet now with any of the heated inflections from earlier. Squaring her shoulders with a breath, she turned eyes of gray back onto Giovanni. Searching his features, noting the injuries again she cupped her palms against her elbows, folding her arms across her waist as she answered. "I believe you, though I am certain my uncle would not have me do so. If I do the opposite of what he would expect, perhaps that will allow me some peace of mind." When her arms fell, she motioned briefly toward his face, and the concern she had tried to hide flickered to life. "Did he? ... Did my uncle give you those?" Her fingers itched to touch the stitching but decorum and courtesy kept her from doing so.

If he knew the line of her thoughts, he would have swept her up in a hug just then. As it was, the suppression of her curiosity maintained the peace between them, and he settled his past back into its box, and deep-sixed it. As for what had happened in Ferrara's presence a few hours before, any good card sharp knew how to raise a bluff, and Seithfed's was largely impenetrable. For now, he slid the knife between his belt and tunic, folded his arms across his chest, and took an easy stance of contemplation rather than defense, rather hoping that as she released her anger, she would be less prone to violence. "I have found it easiest to regard anything your uncle says with a healthy amount of skepticism," he replied kindly. "Action is eloquence. I know it has been difficult for you, for yours has been a life of reaction, but I have given you my word. I must have your trust if we are to succeed." Though the words were said carefully, his eyes soberly met her own. She was not alone, and really, the option to abandon her had never been present. With operatives on his own ship, had he left without attending to the Duke's business, he would never have made the next port. He always appreciated a decent challenge, and now offered one, he need her to see that they were together in this. As he had mentioned to d'Ercole, Seithfed fully admitted he was no preux chevalier, but he was not without a heart. She drew him away from his ruminations with that gesture, and he smiled in relief. Which, of course, hurt. "Heavens, no. For whatever reason, your uncle likes me." He laughed, shedding his look of sobriety for a glimpse of Bacchus. "Your chamberlain had a particularly -- ah... knowing look on his face that I thought best remedied with a right hook. I am sorry, principessa, but sometimes, my manners -- they are more of the farmer than the marchese. I could not resist the temptation."

Twisting her hands together she paced before the hearth as she thought long and hard on his words regarding her uncle. "It is harder for me to know how I can regard all that he says with skepticism when my life has been nothing but dire promises kept on his part." Her rise in agitation had nothing to do with Giovanni's presence and everything with her uncle's shadowing hand that still seemed poised to destroy her. "He used the fact that I was stunned by his admission to seal his regency. It means that in affect you will have no power as my husband, leaving you as the Prince Consort and not a king as you should be." When she paused in her pacing it was to rub briefly at her temples with her fingertips. "I will have nothing save the power to order my household around." She wanted to swear, to kick at the furniture and do as others daughters might in this situation but she was simply laced to tightly into her gown. Looking up quickly, she glanced around long enough to understand that they were still alone. Their discussion had not been interrupted by servant or worse yet, d'Ercole. "And where are my maids, come to that?" Purposefully she marched in as much as a soldier might toward a particularly challenging foe. Throwing the door open to her bedchamber, she looked inside only long enough to be confused anew when she returned. "I have seen no one of my routine since I left earlier for dinner with my uncle. When you say you solved a knowing look upon my chamberlain what do you mean exactly?" Hands spread she came to stand near him enough that her curiosity was night unto palpable. "You mean to say you ... fought with d'Ercole over a look?" That he apologized his lack of manners she seemed not to care, and to be truthful she found it refreshing for once that someone she knew wasn't completely bound by the laws of propriety.


"Prince-Consort or no, wresting power from your uncle should not be your ambition. Madam, if you would pardon my bluntness, you must learn to choose battles you can win." He slid the knife out from his belt, and confident she would not poke any holes into him, he held it out to her, handle first. "Your uncle is not invincible. If he does not meet his end in a most Italian fashion, he will grow old and ail, as we all shall. Our battle is to live, and to live in a way that we might take pride in our lives. To live not as cornered animals, but as men. And women." When she took the knife, he resumed his thoughtful pose, arms folded neatly across his chest and eyes leveled upon her. She was not without reason, but there was something to be said for fresh perspective. He needed her opinions, her evaluations, to strike back at Ferrara. The time was not now, but he could feel it rumbling nearer. "As a youth, I never subscribed to the notion that God granted stewardship to man over beast, authority to some and not others. It would brand me a heretic, I know, to disagree with such an established idea -- as if to say the grass is red and the sun rises in the west. But I have since revised my opinion. Some are born to authority. Some are born to rule. Ferrara's authority is as transient as that of all living men, and I believe it can be broken. It will require patience, and a particular brand of vigilance, for a I trust not a word from his mouth." Another quirk of his mouth before he contemplated her next words. He relaxed his arms, long enough to tilt his head and give his hair an absent fluff with his left hand in contrition. Or consternation. He was not sure which yet. "I did. I believe I came out the better looking of us, but your lord chamberlain was not intent on returning a punch, but slapping me upon the face. He is a very odd man. Alas, I do not think we shall ever be friends."


Taking the dagger she returned it carefully to the sleeve from whence it had come and that he did not ask how she had come by it further proved that there might be some separation between he and she regarding their own person. That he gave it back left her slightly humbled since he could have very well have kept it and used it against her at some other point. It proved he was not as the men in her past had been. Giovanni was different and he only furthered that opinion as he spoke. "My brother would have been a great king, far better than I would be a queen. He had it in him to balance the needs of the people with the political demands of the world." Something she had so wished she had a talent for, but it was apparent that she was sorely lacking in that area of her education. "My uncle is not invincible, no ... this said by a man who I am told he has some strange fondness for." Lips quirked then and it was not beneath her to laugh at the strange discourse they were having. "I should scarce believe you to have been idle in your youth at all my lord. It does not seem to suit you, idleness. Forced or otherwise." Hesitantly she reached up to brush aside his hair so that it was no longer askew, keeping away from the stitching as she did not wish to cause him further hurt. "He is an odd man, has always been so. Her Grace, Beathag said that it was because his blood grew hot over the thought of tilling my field." Of course if she knew as to what it meant all together, she might not have said it so matter-of-factly. Satisfied that his hair was neat, she tilted her head before nodding. "We are two days from my coronation and Marcos has seemed to go missing thanks to your ... brief meeting with him. Where my servants are is a puzzle I would solve if only needs be. What I have been told is that I am to learn how to manage estates and consort with my peers. My uncle stressed that such was your idea." Folding her hands again, she regarded him askance. "Is it truth he spoke, or another lie?" Ferreting them out was going to be a chore but certainly she thought it good practice for later.

He smiled, gently touched her wrist, and placed it in his hand. "One goes through life in the effort to make as few enemies as possible, and learns despite his best efforts, he has gained some unwanted allies. No, my youth was not idle. It was a struggle. I was no master of my fate. I was young and scared, but I fought anyway, until there was no more to fight. There are some lessons, principessa, I wish I had the luxury to learn from a book, but that is not our fate." It had been a long day, and keeping himself in check was something he was finding it immensely difficult to do, particularly when she kept such a straight face when speaking. "Well, I am fairly certain I have managed to throw a few rocks in the way of his plough. He will likely behave himself in my presence, and I do not intend to go far until we are properly wed. Your chamberlain, however, has some wounds more of the emotional nature to nurse, though I would not put vengeance past him yet. I wonder if your servants have taken advantage of his absence. You may wish to make an example of one upon their return, but I would not be overly harsh. Could you blame them?" They spoke now as equals, something even Seithfed was amused to observe. Their friendship was a new and tentative thing, but potential warmed between them, and comforted any doubts he had as to his course of action over the day. "I did indeed suggest a thing. Madonna, your uncle does you a disservice by isolating you from women you could learn from, and potential alliances you might make in your friendships. Though I understand the need to keep you safe," the last word had a bit of a bite to it, as the intention was not to keep her safe, but to keep her isolated, "but I persuaded him allowing you a bit more freedom than you have now would not a refugee make. I know full well you can manage your household and staff, but I think there is more you might gain from the Duchess. If rumor is correct, she is truly a forward-thinking woman. And soon, it will not be his call what qualities I wish to instill in my wife." He raised her hand to his mouth, and brushed a delicate kiss to the back of her fingers.

Looking briefly at her hand in his, she wondered if truly there was such a thing as friendship gained before all the wedding vows were said. Beathag had said that the cornerstone of a good relationship was the ability to trust and that one was fortunate if there was comfort to be had between partners. Afraid to hope to hard that it could be another one of the rare truths of the world, she regarded her husband-to-be but could not old the solemn expression to her face. She felt an odd kinship with the man of his youth but knew that he gained much since then. "Had you not those lessons, you would not be able to aid me now. I will not ask, because it does not seem that it should be questioned, your youth. Let us suffice to go forward thinking that it is what it is, the past." And it would be a struggle still but she did not have to do so alone and without a friend any longer. His would be a different friendship from that of Lucrezia's but she did not feel uneasy about it. Stifling what she was sure was a giggle into her other hand, she shook her head regarding rocks and fields and ploughs. Trying to sober herself was an uphill battle that for once she felt no compulsion to win. "Were I them and have found my master suddenly without, I would no doubt seek to occupy myself with something delightful and carefree." She would of course have to speak to her maids, and to the guards who should have been outside her apartments but that seemed like it was a lifetime away. It had begun to dawn on her that she was enjoying the privacy of simply speaking to someone without a dozen ears or eyes on them. Grasping his hand tightly for a moment in a fit of giddiness she nodded while a full smile stretched her lips over her teeth. "She is indeed a marvel. I have never met a woman who does not conform to the thinking of the church. I thought our conversation refreshing." Feeling her cheeks heat again, she pursed her lips together before confessing another truth. "It was she who gave me the dagger. I was so angry earlier that I did not realize I had wandered through the castle to her private apartments ... I even went through her bedchamber unknowing." The flush on her cheeks went straight to her hairline then. "She was quite understanding of my ... frustration, so perhaps you might take that into account regarding the traits you would instill in ... in your wife." Grateful that she was already blushing she didn't have to worry about his very courtly gesture.

"I am willing to do so. I am not yet ancient, but I feel so, when I think that you were quite possibly not even bo -- hmm." He smiled. "Let us forgo that unexciting prospect." She was far more mature than even he had given her credit for, and wise despite that girlish laugh she gave him. "Oh, I'm quite sure they are enjoying a night of complete hedonism, but I see you are without a guard, and that is unforgivable." He did not have to warn her how punishment in the morning would be quite severe without an exemplary beating, but as captain of his own ship, hangovers were hardly a reason for dereliction of duty, and his men earned far worse than a few slaps. He was fair and he was just. Though he was not an easy leader to serve, he was one his men were proud to call their captain. Such respect was not earned by laughing off a few hours of abandonment. There were other ways to release tension, and he hoped, by shadowing the Duchess, the princess would learn a household need not run on fear to function. He tried not to make too many plans in advance, when such an obstacle as Ferrara shadowed heavily on their future, but he could grasp at a freedom their vows of marriage would allow her. At her admission about the dagger, he merely nodded. "You should learn how to use that properly. Hold it in such a way in an actual fight, and you may find your own weapon used against you. I do not find anything offensive in giving a woman the means to defend herself, if the woman has the skill and courage to learn to use it well. Easily remedied, though." He would say nothing about who gave Ana-Catalina the dagger. Ana-Catalina's friendships were her own. She desperately needed women she could count on, who could advise her. "And I think, if you were in a similar frame of mind as when I arrived, she is willing to forgive your transgression if she has not already. But I do not know Her Grace, and would not presume. It is good, then, that you will have the opportunity to show her the more pleasant facets of your personality in the near future." He did not wish to break the spell of privacy they shared, but before her guards delved too far into their drinks, as he suspected they were well on their way to doing, he needed one or two still sober enough to guard her door tonight. If they were not her own, he had a few contacts within the castle guard with debts owing that he might put to use instead. "I think we are quite stuck with each other, principessa. Maybe I will not be able to instill any traits in you. I do not think this would be the most tragic thing to happen." With an amused look in his eyes, he released her hand and stepped back. "Do you even know what and who you are yet to know what must be remedied? Until the morrow, madonna."

Her day and begun with uncertainty and there had been a far dosing of confusion and anger throughout it, but at the end of it she felt far lighter than well, than she ever had before. It was more than likely because she was coming to the realization that she did not have to bear the weight of her burden alone. "If I know those of my household as the Italians they are, then no doubt they are at dice and cups." Not to mention any number of sordid things her maids had once described. She was certain that most of them were completely beyond physical comprehension. "I am certain you will find them in the Great Hall. I have been there but once, but it is where most of the men and women gather for games of sport and chance." Had she seen anyone embracing while stalking through? Thinking back, she was not at all certain but shrugged away the thought. That he was on the side of a woman knowing how to defend themselves would have been suspicious had he not already proven himself to be unlike anyone she had ever met. Her smile gentled but her eyes remained serious. "I would greatly wish to learn the use of it. Her Grace was very forgiving of me, and gave me a perspective of my own ... feminine power." Of course she wasn't sure of the extent of it, but she was mindful of learning also with the more time she spent in Beathag's company. "Tomorrow evening my uncle has planned a banquet in honor of my coronation on the following morning. With the Pope to attend, no doubt you might meet Her Grace and the Duke of Skye there. It would be only fitting since you are my betrothed." If there was anything foul afoot, she had yet to ascertain what it might be. Bemused by his question, her head tilted sharply to one side as she smiled a little in confusion. "I know that I am Ana-Catalina, your betrothed. As for my traits, surely it will be as much a discovery for myself as they will be for you." If she could drag one of her maid's from whatever bed she had crawled into then she might be able to actually sleep a little more soundly. "On the morrow, I will introduce you to a few people with whom I have told you a little of already. I think the confusion of the banquet an opportune moment for you to be familiar with their faces." She prayed that whatever allies she had, they might know one another outright rather than be skulking about in the corridors. "Good night, my prince. Rest you well." Invigorated by the prospect of outwitting her uncle for a once, she wondered if sleep would come at all?[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Opulence Over War[/u]

When she woke it was with the first breath of realization that when she went to bed again that night she would wake the next day to be crowned Queen of Naples. And she felt more than a little bit of apprehension over the prospect. It should have been that she was awaiting the day that her brother's coronation was announced, and his wedding. Instead she had been hurriedly jostled through the preparations for her own day on the throne and at the altar. Quieting her soul was harder these days, with the stir of war just beyond the castle walls and the underlying tensions that seemed to grow more and more each day between the man she would marry, and the man who was charged with the keeping of her household. Marcos and Giovanni were enemies and it was no longer a quiet matter to be kept amongst themselves. Servants spoke, Ana-Catalina knew this but to hear it whispered that Giovanni would soon roust Marcos from his position was another matter that gave her cause for concern. How could she keep the man who was steadily becoming very important to her alive and well enough to make it back to Naples in order that her family might be restored while in turn keeping herself just as well and alive in the process? Though she might pound her head, no answer ever came. And her knees were growing tired of being before the pier-de-dieu where none of her prayers were ever seemingly answered.

Mistress of her own domain she might have been, Marcos still held the reigns of power and so she spent her day as she had all the previous ones before in the company of Bishop Rieti and his stewards who were charged with her daily spiritual education. From there it was onto the less secular tutors who ensured she spoke French, German and English with as great a proficiency as one born to those countries. A Queen could not be uneducated, and in realty Ana-Catalina grasped at any chance to learn. One of her greatest fears was for her people to believe that she was dull witted or stupid and what could would she be to her husband if she knew nothing of the world. Food was generally an after thought in her mind, but knowledge was something she hungered for on a most voracious level. Where one woman might yearn for a certain cloth for a gown, or a particular dressing for her hair, she delighted in the small, worn book given as a gift by Giovanni to her. That traveler's log went all places with her, and it was never far from her reach. It was perhaps in some small part, a talisman for her so that Giovanni's presence was felt in some way.

Keeping with the tempo of the day she felt nothing to be amiss until she returned from her studies to find a Moorish bath to have been drawn and a gown she had never seen was set out upon her bed. Regarding it as she might a coiled serpent, she edged toward it crab wise while regarding her maid, Isabella with eyes of cool gray. "Has my uncle bid me to dine with him?" Dreading that the answer might be yes, the traveler's log was set aside as fingers caressed the heavy silk. It was fine stuff indeed, far more so than what she had ever seen fabricated before and the cost of such a garment no doubt was a mighty sum indeed. It had been dyed so darkly purple that it was almost black, and the embroidery of a thousand seed pearls must have taken several seamstresses the better part of a month to complete by hand. The swirling patterns along the bodice and sleeves reminded her of wispy clouds across a moon lit night, the braiding at the sleeves was done in the same deep purple and stitched with lines so fine that they were nearly invisible. Though the skirt itself was without the embellishment of the seed pearls, she thought it a wonderful marvel until she was shown her undergarments. Well used to linen against her skin, she nearly balked at the thought that what she would wear beneath this royal gown was nearly transparent it was so fine. It was not until she touched the fabric that she realized that it was silk like the gown itself only ten times lighter in weight. Breathe it almost did on its own as it slithered enjoyably over her palm. Astonished that such a thing could be made she laughed softly, looking up briefly with delighted eyes at her maid. Isabella's eyes were guarded, her smile superior. "It is for your debut this evening, Your Grace. The Duke, your Uncle is throwing a fete in honor of your coronation on the morrow. All of import, including the pope himself shall be in attendance. You are to bathe, rest and then be dressed in time for the party just after sunset this eve." That such richness would be so wasted on a stripling like the princess was beyond Isabella but she had greater games to play than nurse.

Dull witted she might have been for the moment by the garments sway, it took her only a few moments to understand that she was not in the company of a trusted member of her household. Imperiously arching one brow she merely nodded in perfunctory fashion before skirting around her maid to enter the smaller chamber where her bath had been laid. Like many things, she enjoyed the innovations of the Moors and her bath was no exception. She would be scrubbed with sugar and honey until her skin glowed, her scalp vigorously washed with the oils of a jasmine plant, all the little details of texture and scent that gave her for a few brief moments the ability to simply be. Disrobed completely, though it was not the fashion, she stepped into the tub completely nude and for once enjoyed the fact that she could indulge this because of her station in life. If nothing else, at least her uncle had given her this much and as far as sensory experiences went, she knew nothing better than this. When she was polished from her bath and rinsed with cold water, she would step from the tub and be engulfed by towels warmed by a fire and then her skin would be soothed with fragrant oils that had been scented by apple blossoms. Though the scent might have seemed childish, she enjoyed the crispness of the scent and the softness. Being soft was a luxury she could not afford herself, so why at least could she not smell like a soft and willing woman? Hair combed and plaited, she was led once more to her bed where she would rest for what seemed like an eternity before being bid to rise and dressed once more.

Only this time, when she looked into the glass she saw not the girl that always seemed to peer back but a young woman whose color was heightened by the depth of color of the gown, the creamy quality of the pearls and the very adult styling of it. Though she wouldn't have considered herself prudish, it was hard to imagine that her uncle had commissioned the gown to appear so ... vulgar. Her thoughts must have read on her face, because when she looked at Isabella, the woman's knowing eyes seemed to say it all. I look a harlot dressed in the garb of a noblewoman. It must have indeed been her uncle's intention, though she vowed not to show her discomfort at feeling so displayed when she arrived at this fete he was throwing. Thankfully the skirt was not split in the center as some of the fashions were wont to do, so she had no worries about her legs showing through the nearly transparent silk of the undergarment, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was indeed a woman given the swell of flesh that peeked inviting above pearls and silk. And there would be no chance to use the length of her hair as a cover since it was to be brushed then plaited again, then pinned in such away that the back of her neck was left completely exposed as well. She might have very well have been completely naked, for she certainly felt it!

Squaring her shoulders she bided her time on her knees once more in prayer until Marcos appeared like a ghost by her side. "Madonna, it is time." His words though clipped held a hint of reprimand when he regarded her appearance yet she could do nothing about it save only to raise her chin regally and nod sharply once more. She would be making her first appearance in public as the touted Queen of Naples, alone and without the arm of any support to hold her steady. Resolving again to show nothing of her trepidation, she walked the halls surrounded by her guard as if she were merely going for a stroll on the castle grounds. Such an activity was becoming more regular for her, although she had been cautioned that Skye was at war and not to take any unnecessary risks to her person. Ana-Catalina though dismal at the suggestion, wondered idly in the quiet of her own mind when she had ever taken an unnecessary risk before? Be still, be calm, none can touch you. Fortified by the constant litany she waited just outside line of sight as she was escorted to the Great Hall of Griffin Castle. Just beyond her, she could hear the din of music, the sound of laughter and conversation and the tell-tale clinking of goblets. Closing her eyes she stepped into the light of hall.

She could hear the Master Herald's quietly indrawn breath, but his recovery was swift and his voice clear and loud over the din. "Her Majesty, Ana-Catalina Theresa of Naples! Long Live the Queen!" Though not crowned yet, all knew within of the surety of the event in the morning and all but a few believed her to be anything but the rightful heir to the throne. Of course those who knew more genuflected in as much the same way as all the others, only they turned their eyes away as if partner to some greater jest. Leaden her limbs felt as if they might not respond yet forward she walked with chin held high and eyes forward. Inwardly she was as the last fall leaf on a branch might be when shaken by a particularly hearty gust. Upon the dais her uncle had risen and to his left were the Duke and Duchess of Skye. To the right of where she would be sitting was the enigmatic face of her soon to be husband, and next to him, the Pope himself. Scattered among the U-Shaped gathering were a number of Italian, Scots and French. Though she was certain a German or two might linger there as well, she saw nothing of the Spanish and felt light headed at the prospect of them being anywhere near her. They were after all, the culprits behind this fiasco.

Taking her place she felt the weight of those watching her and rather than shrink, something within her seemed to expand until it stretched her skin to bursting. "My Lords and Ladies, Honored Guests ... It pleases us that you all have gathered here to celebrate our coronation. With thanks be to God for his Grace in this, we ask only that you enjoy yourselves this eve and avail yourself of the hospitality of our hosts who have allowed us this night." Turning, she regarded Beathag, and then her husband Adam for a long moment. It struck her heart so deeply then that they should remind her so of her parents who had a similar relationship in their rule over Naples. Would her husband be anything like the astute man who governed Skye with his wife? Or would he as she feared, turn out to be more her uncle's man than her own? Bowing her head to them she bestowed the honor of one sovereign to another before turning her eyes once more toward the crowd and then toward the person of her betrothed. His face had remained strangely stoic until then, and the flicker of a smile along with the quizzical raising of one of his brows caused her to flush almost scarlet to the roots of her hair. It was for a certain that he wondered at the obviously provocative cut of her gown but she could do nothing save smile before turning her gaze then to the Pope. "Your Grace, would you please bless the board that we might allow this event to get underway?" With his nod of acquiescence, she sat as demurely as possible while trying not to seem as if she were staring down her own dress. She had never faced such a galling, nor daunting task.

Wizened by age and politics, the Pope rose and delivered a rousing blessing that detailed the gratitude of those gathered. It was not until the tale end of his speech however that his voice took on a completely different tone, one that was forceful and effective in gaining the attention and ears of every one gathered. "We are honored to be in attendance of this Sovereign Nation of Skye and find that God is pleased. All here know that the Duke and Duchess are beneath the grace and blessings of the Holy Mother Church and Our Lord God. Amen." Stunned to momentary silence, the hall filled with the applicable 'amen' as the Pope seated himself. It was only when the wine was being poured and food elaboratedly paraded out that the seated crowd within could burst into conversation. Murmurs of speculation abounded as to how it was that so pagan an island could garner the support of the Mother Church without the strong arm of Ferrara to see to it. Few there knew that the Pope had met with the Duke and Duchess, nor that he enjoyed the rousing debates he had had with both.

Beyond all of it, Alphonse only smiled and kept the well of his own counsel to himself. His game was laid deep and ran a course that only he knew. That all moved seemingly to his tune was the illusion he had carefully crafted over the years until one knew not if what they were seeing was reality or the carefully construction aberration manufactured by d'Este's himself. Though there were indeed wolves battering at the doors of Griffin Castle, nothing quite took one's mind from it other than Opulence Over War. [/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Lines of Legitimacy[/u]

Elaborate and sumptuous for an event set in a land plagued by war, something that began in her mind as a fiasco somehow turned into a thing of great frivolity. Not only for those who were gathered, drinking the wine and beer provided by the recent addition of a Cistercian Order of monks but for herself as well. Those who came to her table to wish her well noted that flush of her cheeks and attributed it to the constant repartee that she seemed to enjoy thoroughly with the man at her right, her husband-to-be the much speculated Marchese de Vigolante de Parma. Attentive to her cup, as well as her person some thought that it vulgar for so young a woman who would hold a great position of power to be so enraptured but then they need only look down the table toward the Duke and Duchess of Skye to see that such feelings obviously were rampant in this part of the world. And His Holiness pleased as a fat uncle!

Embolden by no little amount of wine herself, she gave lavish blessings to any who wished her well and regarded all with seemingly great feelings of generosity. It was something Alphonse could have only hoped to orchestrate, only he had nothing to do with it at all. Oh no, he gave all credence to Giovanni who kept his niece's cup full and her attention distracted at best. That she acted with the youthful enthusiasm of a wayward drunk at times stood well in his eyes and those of the Italian lords with him who viewed her dress and her gaiety as something of a detractor in a ruler. Smile she did at those gathered, with a great regard for the Duke and Duchess of Skye all the more so now while laughing a time here or there at some strangely apt observation Giovanni made. He had a way about him that set her at ease with those around her she might not have been able to speak with. It gave her a sense that in part he did it for himself, but also he did it for the pleasure of seeing her blossom in regard to her new status in life. Though wary of his mentor, Alphonse being only a chair away, he gave over himself to the pleasure of the table, the insightful if a little inebriated study of those around him by his young wife-to-be and kept always a single eye toward the at present elusive figure of Marcos d'Ercole. The man hadn't been spotted save earlier, and that he had turned into a specter was a growing cause for concern for the Marchese. If the man had anything planned, it would certainly have been with a more advanced time table.

With the hall filled to capacity, it was hard to decipher just who was who in the crowd yet most were sure to make their own rounds and speak to anyone of interest that they might have business with. Many were working toward the common goal of a free and united Scotland, but there were some who had gathered for a darker purpose that had nothing to do with the succession of the crown of the Scot's but with thrones on far distant shores. Others had gathered in an effort to thwart the subversion of the true and the righteous but for the moment it was anyone's guess as to who was playing at which side. Among them the Bishop of Rieti, a man whom Ana-Catalina had no pleasure in knowing but had suffered through since her departure from her uncle's holdings some months ago. Self possessed, he had taken to his station in life as the key instructor for her religious education with a zeal that bordered on fanaticism. More often than not he took great pleasure in subtly humiliating her thoughts, or her person by way of harsh penances exacted whenever he felt she had flaunted canon law. As a result though, he had insured that the princess would be pious and devout even if it meant she would have no flesh on her palms. His allegiance to Alphonse d'Este's was contingent on the fact that he held a mighty secret over the Duke, not for his own purposes but at the behest of none other than the Master Chamberlain of the Household of the Principessa, Marcos d'Ercole. He feared the man in a way one might fear the unlucky stroke of death's hand as it hovered just within skimming reach of one's person.

Now however the tables were turned and it was d'Ercole who was now without the favor of the Duke, nor of the man who would marry the young princess. Circulating through the room, he appeared to be the stalwart but kind Bishop reputation had built him to be yet few understood the wrath of God as he was willing to preach it. In actuality he was aligning himself with the high table in an effort to gain the ear of Alphonse d'Este's. When he caught the eye of the Duke of Ferrara he smiled benignly while bowing his head. "Your Grace it is good to see you hail." When he received but a dismissive wave of the man's hand he felt his jaw tightening. The man would not be so quick to dismiss him soon enough. "I trust you have availed yourself of the beer and food, Rieti?" Alphonse was one of the few men in Europe who was not charged with calling any of the men of the cloth by their secular title. It was his arrogance that gave him license rather than disrespect. "Indeed, Your Grace. You have set a mighty table this evening and I am sure that His Holiness appreciates the effort." With a placating smile and arms folded neatly into the sleeves of his robes, the Bishop leaned conspiratorially forward then as the Duke eyed him. "I have not seen Don Marcos d'Ercole this evening, Your Grace. Is it because he is not in good standing with the court?"

Alphonse felt his patience for the prattling man thin. Man of God he might have been, but he was no better than the laundry maids who spouted vague and wide rumors, titillated by gossip and the happenings of those better than they. Congenial with a smile, the gray eyed Duke hummed for a minute before laughing, a picture of a man happy with the events taking place before him. "Ah, indeed. Don Giovanni does not approve of him. It is his feeling that he has mismanaged my niece's estate. As a result he has endeavored to keep a closer watch on the man. It is not for me to say what business there is between them." Motioning toward the happy couple who had departed the table for the floor in favor of dancing along with many of the other revelers, his grin widened yet now it held an edge. "You can see for yourself that they are well matched my niece and he. Giovanni is a loyal man who has personally taken an oath of fealty to me. That he should feel protective of his wife-to-be is natural some would think. Do you not agree?" Ah, now there was a sticking point, wasn't there? Clearly the Duke wished to know just what the man was waiting to speak to him about, because it was obvious the man's failure to remove himself from the table had everything to do with what was not being said.

"These things happen. Men and women come into favor only to lose it. Such is the way of the courtly theater." Smugly confident now the Bishop hemmed and hawed for a moment longer before his head tilted and his eyes roamed from the face of the Duke toward the seemingly happy couple. "Your Grace might recall a young man within my employ, Cristiano di Espositi?" Seeing as the Duke said not a word regarding the matter, the Bishop thought it best to plunge onward. "His mother was a lady whom I believe you knew. Isabella di Cavatalli?" Seeing the flicker of the Duke's eye lids, Rieti knew that he had his attention even if he remained eerily silent. "It has been brought to my attention that the young man begins to resemble his father more by the day and it burdens me greatly to have the confession of his mother so heavily weighting my heart." Sorrowful, perhaps a little over the top he pressed on when the Duke eyed him stonily. "I recall she is a woman in the service of my niece, Bishop. I knew her perhaps too many years ago when she was in the first spring of her youth." What patience had thinned had now evaporated and he did not like the insinuation that began to underline the man's words.

Looking broadly over the crowd, he then turned almost completely toward the Bishop with murderous intent in those cold, gray eyes. "Speak your peace or I will have it leaked to those here and others whom I know you fear that it is said you spoil the sheets of your bed with the boys whom you bring into your household for religious studies. Do not toy with me, Teodoro." Watching as the color leached from the man's skin satisfied him on in as much as it further angered him that he was not completely forthcoming as quickly as he aught to have been. For a certain the man would not live to see Italy again, of that Alphonse was completely sure.

Unknowing that he had crossed some invisible line, the Bishop of Rieti knew that his ship was literally sink and fast too. Lips licked nervously, he kept his voice low, yet there was a quality to it that rankled on Alphonse's ears. That of a whining supplicant. "I mean only to say Your Grace that your niece is not your only option to inherit your estates. It is known to me, privately that he is indeed your son. With His Holiness' favor you could have him legitimized and molded to your image." He all but flinched when the Duke's hand raised, warding him to silence as a passing servant leaned over them to refill the goblets that littered the table's surface. The Cistercian's had done well with the wine they provided, but then Alphonse expected nothing less of men who adhered more fiercely to the life of the cloth than the gaudy man beside him.

Drawing his wine toward him, the Duke contemplated the surface of the liquid as it sloshed and shimmered. He had known Isabella what, fifteen years ago? It meant that his son, if indeed the boy was his, was just old enough now to begin training in statesmanship. No doubt he was educated given he was in the service of the clergy, but what was his personality like? Had he taken on any of the traits that Alphonse exhibited or was he more or less like his mother, who he recalled was a rather sniveling creature. Having misjudged the Bishop he thought to give the man another chance on his life and smiled, this time with more warmth than he actually felt. "I should very much like to meet him. I will send a courtier for his person and his belongings. See that no one knows of this, Teodoro. I am counting on your complete discretion in this." As the Bishop turned away while bowing, Alphonse regarded the happy countenance of the Pope. His mind was boiling over with possibilities, but it would take a firm hand and some subtle persuasion to make His Holiness see the rightness of legalizing Alphonse's bastard son's claim to the seat of Ferrara. It would of course throw off his plans to have the whole of Italy beneath his hand, but not by much. If anything, it gave him more incentive to ensure that whatever line had begun with Ana-Catalina's parents, ended with her.

Sitting back, he clapped and laughed and in general ingratiated himself toward the Scot's. After all, he was campaigning now not only for himself but his son. Mentally he sighed with relished, reminded that not all the lines of legitimacy were clear and definite.[/font]

[Ana deCervillion]

Best Laid Plans[/u]

Winter in the northern regions of Italy's city-states was like anywhere else in the world gripped in the month of February, with it's tantalizing hints of Spring to come. Only those in the most dire need traveled, and as the courier found his way into the warmth of the House of d'Este's he wondered if the news he carried with him would end his life? Winding through the endless halls flush with light and hushed with a certain dour air he was brought by a liveried servant into the inner most sanctum of the Duke of Ferrara.

It was a place unlike any other, where the wealth of Ferrara's duchy was seen in all its glory. Tapestries hung from the walls, carpets strewn about the floors. Gold and silver winked from candlesticks and cups, plate and frame. It was a scene most rich, save for the darkened wall at the far end of the room where the Dead bided for all eternity. Fully clothed and posed in various positions of humility were the long dead enemies of Ferrara. They were hideous in their repose, complete with eyes made of glass and hair carefully coiffed. Fingers bejeweled and waists adorned with weapons still sharp enough to cut through silk they were strange and terrifying. Or so, the courier thought until his eyes came to rest on the awesome figure that stood, hip shot and broad shouldered before the leaping flames of a tremendous hearth.

He was tall with the straight back and closely cropped hair of a military man. It was silver now with his advanced age, but there was little else that belied just how advanced that age was. His lips were full, a lovers mouth though none had ever heard a soft utterance from it. No, it was most likely to curl into a disdainful sneer over even white teeth than it was to smile. His eyes were the most gruesome feature, a piercing gray that was as cold and flat as a mirrored coin. They looked over many ahead in his day and had caused more than one of those heads to roll. It gave him pleasure to be master over many, yet at the present moment those eyes that held life and death within them stared daggers at the haggard face of his courier. "Yes, what it is?"His voice was strong, yet there was a testy air lathed heavily over those baritone notes.

Quivering from his soul outward, the courier inched forward only so much as was necessary to deliver the news that he carried. "Y-Your Grace, there is news from abroad." Doffing the cap from his head, he pulled hard against the fetlocks on one side of his face while kneeling. "Naples has once again petitioned the Holy Court in order to bring his sister back from Lithuania with the hopes of marrying her to the Doge of Venice." It was pure madness the King of Naples wished, given the Doge was well into his eighties and married already. The King of Naples had petitioned almost every court in the land for suitors for his sister who he called in one hand a traitor and in the other his beloved sibling. Not to mention the fact that his court was rife with suspicion as to whether or not the King was mentally stable enough to rule. Upon seeing the narrowing of the Duke's eyes, the courier bowed lower as he delivered the next portion of news that seemed not to be going down well. "There is more. It is said that Isobella carries within her, the King's heir." Had the courier any other thoughts in mind they were quickly cut off.

"What of the princess? Does she remain where I put her?" When the couriers eyes darted away, Alphonse knew his answer. It was all the motive he required to gut the man where he stood. Feeling the warmth of his blood stain his hands was something he relished on more than a single occasion, so he took joy in it before calling his servants to remove the body. Naples would have no heir other than who he deemed fit. "Call my son to me. I have a task for him." His only son, his pride and his secret joy. Molded in his own image and twice as thirsty to prove that he was worthy of his father love.

Good and biddable his son was not, but he carried the straight carriage and gray eyes of the d'Este's house. Yet there was a certain shrewd air about him that had little to do with the royal blood flowing through his veins. He knew that his days were marked and that he was only as useful as he made himself to his father. That he had any delusions of fatherly affection were long since gone given the three years he'd spent in Ferrara at the behest of his father. His mother? She had been a chambermaid to the duke's wife some years ago whom the duke had taken to bed. The product of such a union came into the duke's personal chambers with a gait similar to his fathers. His hair was to light to be considered black, yet dark enough to be deeper than brown. It was a rich shade of mahogany. "You sent for me, Father? His voice was a level tenor, with just enough pious notes within it to keep the duke thinking that his son yearned for his approval. But what did he know? Ferrara's time was past and soon it would be his turn to take the reigns of power.

Regarding his son, he pondered the wisdom of his decision before nodding curtly. The boy would never betray him. Not if he wanted to remain in the world of the living as one of the living. "I am sending you to the Kingdom of Lithuania where you are to ascertain the whereabouts of your cousin, Ana-Catalina Theresa de Cervillion. Once you know those details, seek her out and bring her back to Ferrara by any means necessary." Which in his mind meant that if she were dead, then so much the better. No doubt he could blame it on someone else. He was quite good at that. As his son bowed, he thought he caught a glimmer of disgust, yet dismissed it as he did him.

Turning back toward the hearth, his mind swept back to Naples and the goings on there. He would have to move quickly once Alonso was disposed of. As for his wife, she too could easily be dealt with. It was only a matter of time. Only a matter of the best laid plans.[/font][/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

From Summer's Bosom to Winter's Grasp

Far, far from the Celtic Countries and the relative safety they provided brooded within the inner most sanctum, His Grace, the Duke of Ferrara. Being of a man moving from the prime of his life toward the fitting age of fifty and three he was still broad of shoulder and fit. His hair, though silver in color was healthful and fell in a comely way toward the nape of his neck. It was worn in the short order of a military man, for he was if ever, a military man in heart and mind. Ill health would only have ever be seen as a weakness so it was that he had never in all his career of politicking, been ill. Fingers, scarred and weather worn held at the edge like the majestic steeple of cathedral keep time with the inner workings of his mind. Sharp, the deadliest of blades, it had long kept him and his enemies at the cross roads that now were set before him.

Across from the expansive, ornately carved desk rested in hollow, well lit alcoves the conquests of his youth. Each dressed as elaborately as if they still lived and breathed. Their skin, long suffused of color held over bone berift of muscle in grotesque, gaping smiles. The Dead. Only their eyes still glittered, for he had, had fashioned for them to perfection glass eyes. So they might always look upon them, their Conqueror and know that I was better. It was something he had often told the one person in his life who still now vexed him even from so great a distance.

Though they shared blood really, the only family resemblance that one might attribute to the other were the shape of their eyes. Where as his niece could be said to have the loveliest of softly blue, or perhaps the bluest of gray eyes, his were a shade of gray like the hide of a shark. And they held just as much life to them, those doll-like, lifeless eyes. So few had seen them ever spark with emotion and lived to tell the tale of it. One such pawn upon the chess board of his life was just beyond his grasp. Just beyond the power of consequences. Were she a man, he might have admired her for the spark of defiance before squelching it. She and the damned traitor he had married her to.

Gruffydd ap Llewellyn. It certainly wasn't the name with which he had come to call upon Alphonso, but the man could well over look that since he had in essence, been foiled by a master it seemed. Giovanni as he had been called, had once upon a time reveled in somewhat of a tenuous position in his heart. The scoundrel was smart enough to garner respect, and dangerous enough to be kept well enough away. That was until, Alphonso himself was the blatant victim of the man's schemes. Did it never end? His informants had come on several occasions to bring news of the man's demise but like the plague he continued to crop up across the Celtic Countries with some regularity until Alphonso was forced to admit that in the end he was outwitted. Fie the man!He thought. Were he more an ally to me, no bounds of my generosity would he have seen. Rather he falls prey to the charms of a girl barely old enough to feed herself, let alone make a decent mistress.

And simply where the Devil had his niece acquired not only the sense but the nerve to traipse about half of Europe with little better than a group of thieves for guards? That she had made it into Lithuania where he had been assured by Gediminas that she would not leave his soil. Of course, Alphonso never truly believed that the Grand Duke would be able to hold his niece for a certain and he was only proven right when news came that she had escaped the hallowed convent of the Sisters of Angelic Mercy and Saint Brigit in the early part of the Summer. Gediminas of course was regretful of the situation and did his part to ensure that the Duke of Ferrara was properly placated be sending his own network of spies outward to keep tabs on the girl -- but by Hades' balls, she seemed to have the slippery nature of an eel and escaped into some underground society which Gediminas' men could not penetrate. And so it was that he had sent his own son, Cristiano towards the shores of the Celtic Countries. One must always use what talents they had at hand, he knew.

But for his mistake and that alone, Alphonso sent to the court of the Grand Duke a warning, the head of his own hostage son, salted and cured with his eyes scooped from their home and left in their place only the desiccated remains of African scorpions. It was enough of a warning that when she appeared next, that he would be the first to know.

So it was from Summer's bosom into Winter's grasp that he found himself smiling once more in good cheer. Ana-Catalina no only still remained in the Celtic Countries, but it appeared she and her husband had taken up residence like some normal, half noble couple. Word had it, he was grievously injured and that his niece attended him like a hen does its chick.

Good, he thought, let her suffer all the more when he does die, what I hope a slow and painful death. If not the injury, then I will surely wring the life from his neck with my own hands before her eyes before those too, she loses.

Satisfied with his daily work and thoughts, he left that cold sanctum for his wife's parlor where he would sup with a myriad of guests come to court his favors. With any luck, there would be one or two among them that he could send out on a most precious mission. Sooner or later, much sooner he hoped, his niece was simply going to have to die.

No one defied him. No one.

[Ana deCervillion]

Beneath the Wing of the Griffin[/u]

Above the common room of the Prancing Bull tavern sat a figure of some distinction though one would never have known it were they not formerly, properly introduced. Secrecy had been key to his mission and failure would in no circumstances not be tolerated no matter what his relation might be to the man who had sent him here. For months he had kept himself squirreled away like a common merchant, listening carefully for whatever news might come his way about details that to anyone else might have been irrelevant. Who docked where, which ship brought what goods. Deeper than that, on another level entirely were the rumors and communications of a world that was better left into the shadows from which it was born.

They hadn't called it the Underdark for nothing, now did they? At first he had scoffed at the notion that some intelligent network could thrive in such conditions but had he not witnessed it himself, he would not now be a true believer. Not only was the network efficient, but it was proficient as well. There were rules, and somewhat of a class system when it came to who was employed by whom. Beneath the upstanding exterior of the Guilds was this ever bubbling fount of intrigue that was orchestrated by a madman. Or so it was said.

So it was that Cristiano Sforza d'Este's found himself penning yet another letter that would make its way from the isle of Skye and into the hands of his father, the Duke of Ferrara.

To His Grace, the Duke,

I bring you news most tantalizing from the coasts of Scotland's own fetid little isle that our princess is indeed found. Though I can not at this time put myself in her company, I have indeed seen her. Though humble now in dress, she does still hold the stature of the great house from which she came. Many know her only as a Lady here, but there are some of the merchants from Italy who do speak with her at times and give her the greatest deference of character. She is of average height of a woman, her features no longer hold the roundness of childhood which is so evident in the last portrait you had given me so that I would know her. Her hair is still of the darkest color, but longer now than I imagine she had once worn it. To see her speaking with the commons is astonishing, but she does so with much grace and manner that no doubt at some time would have stood her in good stead.

Of her husband, I have seen nothing and heard even less. There are rumors that the man is already dead of some plague or malady of another kind but this I have not deciphered so I do not take the rumors to be true. If they were, she would no doubt have less courage to be out so much so in public.

I shall await further instruction as to what you wish of me. I pray those instructions come before the first frosts hit the Celtic Channel.

Your obedient Servant and Son,

Cristiano Sforza d'Este's

Sealing the letter with wax and a plain seal, he gave it to one of his men and told him that in no certain terms should the letter go to anyone's hand but that of the Duke of Ferrara. Should word come to him that it hadn't, then he would indeed find that person and turn them inside out so that they might look inside themselves before boiling them in oil. It was a rich gift he had inherited, that of the incalculably cruel torment. His pleasure, his price for the titles that would be his someday. Most of his men knew also that there was another seal within the letter, which would tell the Duke if the original had been broken. There were few enough who had died a gruesome death for attempting to ferret the information found within these communications and the reputation was well founded.

With the chill of the first day of Autumn setting in around him, he threw on his favorite fur lined cloak before taking leave of his humble lodgings. If luck were to remain on his side, no one would know until well after the princess was dealt with that all this time, he had been beneath the wing of the Griffin themselves.[/font][/color]

[Ana deCervillion]

The Return of the Physician[/u]

Incense loomed, thick and acrid in the close quarters of the Physicians apartments. Here in the first blush of Fall in the Little Court of the Serene One, Fatima Ibn Hanum brushed past the heavily carved furniture and sumptuous trappings to throw open the windows and lean her face out toward the Sun. Though weak, it warmed her through the silk that hid her from the world. Here there was such sounds! A veritable symphony of noise that melted together until the brain boggled at deciphering it all. Smiling a little as she retreated back into the rooms, she went about opening up all the windows. "Father, such heavy air is not healthy for you." New air circulated into the room, taking with it the smoke so that she could breathe at least, a little easier now.

Seated at a desk, with a thousand sheets of pressed, Egyptian paper sat her world. Her Sun and Moon, her Heaven and Earth. She had never been his favorite, but she had been his most loyal. Truly it was a shame that their sister Yasarah had been suborned from the True Path and then left for dead in the middle of the Channel. Byram, Moorish Physician to the Serene One, her Majesty and Royal Highness the Princess Ana-Catalina Theresa de Cervillion now contemplated all that was before him. It was a task most daunting she had given him, but here before him were the years of toil and subterfuge. Here in these delicate sheaf's of parchment and vellum was the proof of whom it was that conspired against her House, her Crown and the whole of her People. Such a great task! No sooner had he left the little island where he had left her, and war broke out over the continent. "My health is fine. Who better to know then, than a physician?" His voice was still the sands of the desert, tinged from long years among the court of the Italians. And his ways were still stubbornly Moorish. Why, he had often been charged to change his ways otherwise he would be strung up by his toes and left for dead. Yet his talents kept him from seeing to his death so prematurely.

Delicate fingers, wrought from a beautiful mother who knew a loom as well as she did a ledger once upon a time fitted themselves against his shoulders. These were the hands of his youngest daughter, Fatima. She wore a perfume made of violets and rainwater, the soft scent so different from that of the unwashed bodies they had suffered on their long journey from the coast of Sardinia to Skye. "No, Lord Father. None know better of your health than you. But please, if only for a short while might you rest?" Soft, soft as a child's caress to it's mother's cheek was her voice. It barely moved the wispy veil that kept the lower half of her face a secret from the world. As he eased his considerable self from the chair in which he had sat for so long, the carefully covered arms of his daughter held him as she would her move favorite thing in all the world. For to her, her father was.

Laying him upon the raised pallet with its myriad of furs and pillows, she marveled not for the first time, at his devotion for a young woman not of his own family. He spoke so highly of the Serene One, saying that in all his days and nights he had never come across such a young woman. Fraught with a life of danger and intrigue she had remained innocent, chaste and above all ... Faithful. Not simply to her people, he had explained but to her God. A pious woman, which her Lord Father thought of more highly than all other forms of womanhood save those who were in the stages of becoming mothers. Pregnancy in their faith was the highest form of holiness. It was a woman's supreme ability and conscious of will to carry life within her -- and thus the reason that they were generally kept sequestered from men. It was not so that they were oppressed, but rather that they be protected as much as possible for the degradations of the males of species. "We are unfit to be among them at such a most holy time." Her father had often said.

With him resting, she could and would tend to their meager possessions. What clues had been left for her father to collect were rolled and folded and tucked into neat, oil lined skeins so that no harm from rain or wind might come to them. From there, she tidied what was left of their household and prepared it for the next part of their journey from the coast into the underbelly of this strange and profound land. The Underdark. It sounded like some ominous dungeon. Silently, Fatima wondered if by going abroad with her father, in a land where women were not so sheltered, were not so protected if she might go the same way as her own sister had? Was it possible that no matter to whom she was related she might become another nameless face?

Uneasy, she unrolled the intricately crafted rug for her prayers, deciding it was best at that very moment while doubt and fear clouded her mind to clear it. Robed from neck to feet, with veils secured over her head and face she knelt like a colorful bird amidst the darker surroundings of the room and begged Allah in all his mercy and wisdom for peace. Not just for herself, but for this strange young woman she didn't know. The Serene One. Lastly, she offered up her own soul for that of her departed sister, that Allah might be merciful and place her in heaven even if, rightly so, she did not deserve such mercy. One never could be sure the capricious nature of a God, so she added that were he to do so, she would devote herself all the days of her life to whatever purpose he divined for her. No matter how great or small that purpose. How futile or never-ending. It was while she was in the midst of her prayers that she felt as she always had when God himself must surely be listening that her shoulders seemed lighter and her mental burden not so much of one anymore. He was Gracious and Kind. He was Merciful and Wise.

Much like her own father, the returned physician. [/font][/color]

[Peregrine Inveryne-Lamont]

“What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, 'This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!' Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, 'Never have I heard anything more divine'?” –Friedrich Nietzshe

The autumn of the year had always felt like a curse, with his heart heavy for the loss of his once life, and what all she took when she left. This was above him now, and the changing leaves had only been a memory as he always left the coast. He fled only to return in the Spring, but now he simply took shelter in the Underdark. This was his once and forever hell. This was his constant punishment, but this was also his life. A bigger part then himself went through the lists of years picking out parts he would better change, and parts he could never have lived without. Peregrine, had traded this world for another as one passed a coin from one hand to another. His was an ancient soul that felt as though it had walked these streets a hundred times in search of the meaning to life.

The winter was not far, and with Rosalind moving their family into town for the season he would be forced to walk these same streets, as it was a plague to him. This was a sickness he could not simply walk away from. The Underdark had become his calling, and with it the turn of his palm towards the heavens he searched through the lines on his ever-changing hand for answers to questions that tore at him. ’You’ll find no rest tonight’ The wind seemed to taunt at him, and bring to life a very real reality that not all was well with the Dal’keith.

Peregrine had slipped back into his role as Goblin King with little ease, but hardly any struggle. This world needed him, for who else would let them exist so without wanting to change? It was then the gypsy king sat on the wall his dagger in hand cutting away at stick for venture of a new pipe, and perhaps a new way to die when the gates opened for the Physician. Curiosity always got the best of him, and with women who hid behind veils he was simply a sucker! It was then his musical laughter filled the street, laughing at the night, laughing at nothing, but all the while still turning away at the carving in his hand. He wore his mood like he wore his clothes, and today they were all the shade of dark coals that had long since burned away. He sat among pumpkins that had faces carved from their flesh with candles burning inside their eerie smiles, and somehow even they seemed to laugh at all who dare take refuge in the coming darkness of the Underdark.

“Come a long way have you?” The vagabond spoke then looking up from his carving to the covered one, and her father. They were almost too put together to be at these gates, or on the streets of dying land beneath the city where the smell of decay washed away with the scent of the sea, “Might not be the best place to stay the night, Princess.” He spoke to the physician then and not her father wondering if her bindings of her sex would prohibit her voice as it did the image of her hair. It sure didn’t with Rosalind, and with that thought he smiled to himself.

[Ana deCervillion]

Unveiling the Underdark[/b]

It took all of his skills not to procure more than the necessary amount of suspicion when asking after a person who was said not to have been on the shores of Skye. Insofar as anyone he has questioned discreetly, none knew as to the whereabouts of the Princess Ana-Catalina, nor that in the person of her husband, the Honorable Giovanni. Byram had learned much later after his departure from his mistress that their marriage was not simply one of state. It was one of deep intrigue that he could not have surmised until he was well ingrained into the court of the Duke of Ferrara and his ill spawned son. That man-child was not one to be trusted. His soul was faceted in a way so that he seemed to be one person in public, and was yet another in private.

Such were the deep thoughts of the physician as he continued on his quest until he came upon a ship whose insignia and name were familiar. Thinking it prudent to wait a short while to ensure that his instincts are correct he took to a nearby tavern. Allah willing, he would be able to discern if the members of that crew and its captain could tell him where to find the Serene One. If not, he would continue to ask just as discreetly before but perhaps at the palace. Servants were known to have loose tongues in matters of intrigue. Every little mystery picked over and apart for their own servile pleasures.

Allah was not only willing, but wise in that he had steered Byram away from the ship just as a man with a purposeful stride and knowing eye came toward the ship. It was then that he decided to make himself known. For good or ill, he must! "Peace be with you, my friend. I seek the man to whom this ship belongs. I think his name was that of Kendrick Seithfed?" The man before him eyed him warily not only in part because did not know the captains name, but also because the Moor before him was conspiratorial in his tone. "Was that. Is no longer. What debts he had before are not our own now." When he made a move to brush past the Moor, he was stayed with a restraining hand that looked more careworn that it seemed it actually was. "Nae sir. No debt do I seek to collect on. I am about my mistress's own business and have need to find her." His eyes held no guile to them, only a beseeching sort of fervent loyalty that at a guess was honorable. "So then? What would I know of her?" Looking toward his two companions, he motioned them toward the ship, herding the Moor as they did so. "It is none of yours, but that of the previous captain, whom I was familiar with if only by name." Two men, simply chatting about the past. It could have been a conversation had a thousand times over. Yet both seemed suspiciously careful of how loud their voices grew, and of saying no other names. "His wife. I seek her." Another imploring look and from the momentary hunch of shoulders, he knew he would find her! "A beauty, eh? Ah well, can't blame you for looking to her. Call on Master d'Aquitaine. Shop d'Ange Vos Ailes. Or at the Ebony Hall, in the Underdark. Pray you have a care if you travel thus, Sir. 'Tis an unpleasant place at times." Byram nodded before politely bowing away from the man's presence.

Just two men, having a general transaction. Nothing suspicious on these docks where intrigue was as ripe as peaches at the height of summer.

It would not be until some time later that Byram, the Physician collected his daughter and they ventured once more into the strange belly of this Isle of Skye. Fatima he bid to wear as dark a gown as possible, along with the most opaque veil that she had in her wardrobe. Who knew what sort of character they were likely to meet while they trudged through the streets, seeking someone whose business it was to clothe pretty women. It was just another business transaction that would seem normal among so many others, wouldn't it? Rather than think and worry on the tiny details, Byram chose to hurry his daughter along. "Haste is essential now. Remember your place, and all will be well." His tone was one of an indulgent father, but Fatima heard the warning behind it. Where they traveled to was no place for a lady of good reputation.

When they came across the Carver, unknown to them as this Goblin King both the Physician, Bryam and his daughter were slightly taken aback. He spoke directly to Fatima but it only caused her to slowly avert her gaze, leaving it away toward the ground rather than answer or look upon him. She was a strange vision there, in midnight blue silk, with only the tantalizing view of heavily lined eyes to give any indication of her features.

Byram's face was a chiseled mask that so many of the Saracens had perfected through the ages. Meant to give nothing away, save stony silence. He did not like that this man, this stranger would be so callous with his daughter who clearly had given him no rise to speak to her. Teeth were ground, and his own temper was checked. They were not in their homeland, not among those who knew their customs for a surety. Obviously, he was a man of some personal wealth given his daughter's gown, the jewels that went with it and the quality cut of his own figure which had a dashingly Italian mark to it. "Friend, I give you no cause for harm to us. We simply seek our way through to a Master d'Aquitaine. Perhaps," and Byram did pause here because even he had heard the rumors of the man's reputation, "you have heard of him and might direct us hence?" Then and only then did the jet color of his eyes twinkle, crinkling just so at the corners while he smiled an almost benevolent smile. "I will pay you for your trouble, but certainly not with anything you look upon now." Which meant in as plain a tongue as he could manage without being outwardly rude. Stay. Away. From. My. Daughter. Infidel.

With Allah's grace this man would assist him in unveiling the Underdark. Or he would die. Either way, both were pleasing in Byram's eyes. [/font]

[Lord General Maahes Asad-Aziem]

Peregrine:

"All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil though, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him." ~Buddha. From his wall the grin could be all that wise-men could pretend to talk about, but did they figure it to be as bright as the moon half turned in the sky like stories told of cheshire cats. The night in its veil of black had no room to expel him, but the name they asked of? Jean-Claude was made of the night as Peregrine was the moon, and together they were a force unlike any other. Though the years had separated them, on this matter at hand Jean-Claude had already come to the child of the forest. The gates of the Underdark were a harlequins painted frown with eyes as angry as the sun, for those who stepped beneath would forget what the warmth felt like, Any that come asking for her through your world, you detain them…The words of the Frenchman were clear enough to speak now through the feel of his flesh crawl with this excitement that had been lost to him once. Upon the wall he stood then walking slowly to devour them with his eyes, and taunt the man with his smirk. "What if I tell you, you have no other choice." Scoundrel. Really she was not his type. He rather liked the mouse brown hair of his wife, and her less then exotic eyes, but this woman...Something of the Arabs and their ability to haunt with a look alone.The distant sound of wild dogs carried through the now vacant streets..were they not full but moments ago? Shadows moved from one to another as then surrounded by thieves this band of distant travels would find themselves. Detain them, Mon Ami..but let me question them. "Of what business have you with the Master?" Prowling from the wall he would lean against the painted face of the faded clown whose eyes burned in the night. (d

Byram:

A quiet pair these two Moors were, the taller father figure as calm as a lake surface while the daughter a seemingly gentle spirit like the backdrop of the nightsky. Fingers spread, the length of them skilled in the knowledge of healing as well as killing. "Then I should make another, if you do not give me one." The cough of a mouse could have been heard, for they made no sound at all after Byram's words hit the air. Not a gasp, nor moan of distress from the downwardly cast face of the Physician's daughter. The set of her shoulders indicated she would follow whatever would come with that same quiet grace. Surrounded by the shadows of villainy and theivery, the dark eyed Moor looked around him as if taking in the air on a Sunday morning, hands folding around to his back and clasped. A thoughtful pose before the curt nod of his own covered head was given. "Is he not the foremost Clothier of the fairer sex? I simply wish to employ him, Friend. I was told when we arrived here that he is indeed the best. I would have only that for my daughter." He hedged a little toward the end. The lie feeling like acid against his tongue and soul. (d

Nasrin:

Many a night found Nasrin walking through the Underdark.  Not all inspiration was found pulling horses free from rose gardens, nor from poring over books   The legacy brought to Skye by the representative from the Ilkhanate was a long one, filled with war, with intrigue and occasional tragedy, carted over thousands of miles and bound with care, written in languages these educated people of Skye had never seen before.  Nasrin's place on this isle was yet to be established.  She had the pleasure of forging her own way, in her own time.  She was not the most social of creatures, finding more pleasure in keeping to her makeshift court and the privacy of their rooms at the castle.  Her husband's rumored cannibalism did not lend itself to a great deal of invitations to social events, which suited them well enough, and the cultivated air of intrigue was mere coincidence, but pruned nonetheless to give Nasrin her more than appropriate air of intrigue as she strolled these streets, strange enough that most avoided her, familiar enough that none challenged her.  The sight of the deep cranberry-toned wool was more appreciated, but Nasrin did have a sense of fashion, coming, after all, from a land that specialized in damask.  The silks she wore tonight were thick against the autumn chill, coarse against the autumn wet, yet had as little to do with the warm and sturdy colors and fabrics native to this land as fresh fruit to the season, in warm gold damask with shades of pink and peach, swathed across her unusually tall, lean frame and hooding over her face, covering her hair and leaving little to the light save her eyes out of clever positioning of folds and shadows.  She watched the exchange from a distance, though Adelaide, as per usual, plunged ahead a few more steps than were polite. *

Peregrine:

Peregrine laughed the sort that almost didn't sound human. It was an eerie sound when there was mechanics behind his voice of a darker kind. For a man that had been all but a frown, he laughed too often, but this was different. This world was something that was driven from distant shores, and a new life offered to him in a bed of Roses. "You would be a fool." With his prowl across the gate, he turned the hilt of a small throwing dagger over in his palm. "But..you are at my gates. Come in." With a small sweep of his hand the gates of the Underdark opened like a sigh over rusted holds. With the dawning shadowed figures they suddenly didn't have a choice, "He's right inside. Come. Be welcome." If the wind could pull upon hair it pulled then to beg them not to, and the stench of the decaying land beneath the city rushed from the dark stairs that lead to the world below, Come along my pretties. The thin boney frames of the thieves came the dark or so it seemed for there were in truth hidden places along the walls to venture between worlds. Stones in the streets could be turned over to offer escape, but did one run from or to? Long eerie fingers of a starved soul who had in fact sold it to the devil years ago, started to sneak out to touch the veiled physicians shoulder, but..

Maahes:

The sound of exploding glass fell then like rain over the gates as an arrow pierced the all seeing eye of the harlequin, and the oil inside the brought flames to rise over the morbid face. The fire would fill the square with a warm amber glow, and the men would scatter in every direction. Their cries into the night pierced the shrill nature of their threats with laughter, for all who lost this battle could only laugh. The archer who had fired it sat upon his horse like a king with pride to have hit the mark before the General, and their conversation soon filtered back and forth of how someday they would watch that pirate hang from his toes.Though it was a game, and one he rightly played in the time of peace. There was a truce between shadow and sun, of lines that didn't get crossed and lives that would not be lost. The wild had been taken out of the Beast, but still his manners needed work. "Detain." He barked at the men on foot who soon came in perfect formation around them all--even Ada? Was that Ada? (d

Byram:

His bow was brief and his face remained as impassive and stoic as ever. "Even fools have the ability to be faultlessly loyal, do they not?" His words were no longer hedged, but held an air of dignity that had kept him well enough in the service of the Italians. He was after all, merely tolerated by them because of his skill. As the two figures turned toward the maw that would no doubt swallow them whole and send them into places that were best left to the parents as a use for making children behave they were halted by the sound of an outrider, the sudden flare of light into the darkness. It was apparent that though the two men knew one another, they were certainly not cut from the same mold of character. It was hard for Fatima not to stare, then to frown before quickly casting her eyes downward again. It seemed their mission would forever been imperiled by one company of people or another. Byram turned his face toward the Tamed Beast, one hand to his chest before he bowed. His frustration was well hidden by the time he had straightened to a stand before this ever growing group of people. Must there be so much attention drawn to themselves? Secrecy had been imperative, yet nothing seemingly could be done in secret here! (d

Nasrin:

No, nothing indeed.  Nasrin took a cautious step backward, seeking for shadow that was so often her friend, to find there was none any longer.  Her lean fingers pulled the edge of her hood across her mouth.  There was nothing against the law to enter here; it was where she and Adelaide did their best thinking, though it was more for Nasrin's benefit.  Ada seemed happy wherever she was, though she would not enter the Underdark without Nasrin by her side.  She had never explained why, though it did not take much to form suspicions here.

Ada:

She thought better at night in general, she should correct the princess.  She thought better in movement, with air rushing against her face, with shadows making of common objects things of rarity and beauty.  And yet suddenly, there was too much light, and she threw her arm across her eyes just a second too late, the firelight painting Ada definitively among those gathered here.  She should, of course, be home with her husband and child, but rules of society and propriety were to be observed by those who cared for either.  Nasrin had said she had a lead on a new book, and Adelaide liked being the taller woman's companion.  But who were all these strangers?  What was Maahes doing here? *

Maahes:

The pirate had slithered into the shadow himself, listening at the back of the wall hidden inside his safe little world for now. The men of the Griffin moved around those who gathered, and made announcement of the Lord General to those of new face in Skye. Adelaide would however, get a rather firm look from a man whose eyes could reflect the fires of a thousand burning suns. Maahes however was not surprised, though now upon the ground to stand in the middle of the circle of men he surveyed the company as any man would a treasured jewel. It pleased him greatly to see their clothes, and brought his heart to soar when the wind brushed the sandalwood scent home. In Arabic he spoke his welcome and held up his hand to stop the elder from bowing. That was not tradition. In his days of mourning he had cut away his dreads, but now tied feathers that fell over one shoulder with the oil black strands of what was left--what had grown. He was not so easily pinned with Nubian traditions of the men who handled him as a child with his hair gone, but still the mark of the glorified sport of lives was there upon his neck in black ink. Any of wealth knew of the fights, and though the ancient world where gladiators were glorified it was not such a stretch to imagine him in the fight rings of the barbaric streets, playing the game of survive. He had been a weapon all his life that wrote stories with every scar that nearly covered every ounce of bronze flesh. "You are lost?" Broken English still seemed so foreign on his richly accented rise of rolling thunder from his chest, but there were warm tones. Not so threatening when chances to hear of something new. "Have come a long way." He stood close enough to the older man the heat of his breath could be felt as he inhaled like some lion taking in the scent of his prey, or was it his pride? "Come. Away from this place." Deliverer, Maahes had always felt the hand that held his blade was an extension from God, and often it was believed by many others as a hand like that could take a life in moments. "You too." He met Ada's eyes DARING her to say no. (d

Byram:

He was a foreign man in foreign lands and learned long ago to adopt those customs which would keep him and his kin alive. Closer inspection of the mounted man brought on the realization that his was a familiar blood and voice. It was strange in a word to hear something so familiar outside the walls of their homeland. There native tongue rolled eloquently from the Physician, Byram's lips. "Not lost. I seek a person who is said to hide here in this land. It is most important." Byram would never have ventured to say as much in English or Italian, but they spoke Arabic, so he felt safer. Who would know what the talked of? Only his daughter, and perhaps another who was just outside the line of his sight? "Many leagues, my Lord. My daughter and I are on a great mission." Indicating the woman in the dark veil and gown, who bobbed quickly in curtsy as was due during such a slight introduction. For all any of the others knew, they were talking about her rather than something of greater importance. "The man here, he barred our way but said he knew where to find the man we were told to seek out." He had not spoken so much Arabic in public in so long that when he was done, there was a sigh of relish for indeed he felt pleased with having so great a warrior near. Darkness be damned as his gaze landed then to the man who had stopped them on their way through the gate originally.

Nasrin:

Adelaide took Nasrin's arm as a way of pulling her along toward Maahes' invitation.  Though continuing their trek through the Underdark was still appealing to both of them, Ada seemed rather insistent to do as the General said.  Nasrin, in the interest of remaining as much in shadow as she could possibly maintain, held back for a moment until she heard the exchange in Arabic.  The Ilkhanate court was conducted in a courtly mixture of Mongolian and Arabic, with commands in the former and poetry in the latter.  The sciences, mathematics, medicine, and arts were all in Arabic, and as Islam penetrated the Ilkhanate starting first with Nasrin's father, the language began to dominate.  Nasrin, of course, had been speaking it since birth, along with a pidgin that approximated many of the languages spoken by the Bedouin people, and the tongue of her father.  How many more she knew was a mystery, much like the rest of her.  She preferred not to be such a social creature as her compatriate, yet step forward they did, Nasrin's gold-and-peach-clad arm nearly obscuring the healer altogether, as the heavy silks seemed more capable of doubling in purpose as a tent.  It would not be past Nasrin to wear such a pragmatic garment.

Ada:

"Oh, Maahes, it is so good to see you again, but what are you doing here?" Ada asked brightly, not ignorant of the language everyone seemed to share.  She had enough working knowledge of Hebrew to decipher some of the conversation at hand, but she chose to ignore it.  Maahes could get her in trouble.  "Have you met Nasrin?" *

Maahes:

They both looked tired, weather worn and beaten, and his heart swelled. The lion had a soft underside so it seemed, though any could tell this of him when they saw him in his valley. His body was a story to tell of great wars won by bare hands alone as now fingers could hardly close, and shoulders could hardly rise. Scars across his brow, and over his arms could only leave many to the imagination of what crossed his body that was hidden from the world. Though his attire on the evening was of formal dress, it still spoke volumes of how he kept his heritage close to his heart with the drape of rusted fabric over his chest and back over one shoulder. The armor of every day was leather, but lightly so as patrol was for boredom's sake. He was a tribe leaders's second born son, who killed the first. Overseas he had a throne to take, but he would never leave his land in Skye..and kept that secret like a lie. His brother assumed the role, one he trusted deeply, but the name was well known throughout all of the Middle East. He dare not introduce it here. "I am Maahes." A name that was his ring name, the Egyptian God with a lion head. The men that followed in behind them would work in perfect order leading the horses along as they walked through the streets back into the world of Skye, "Is it peace you come for?" To marry her off perhaps? A look back to the veiled woman his heart swelled with the ache of something Mahmoud the Manu(second born son) had almost forgotten about.

Peregrine:
When the backs of all were on him he reached out to slip Ada's hand into his own, and Peregrine would whisper they were looking for Jean-Claude. The concern was written on his face as there was much it seemed JC was keeping from his darling wife. (d

Byram:

His head came back and swung forward, an epiphany of a moment at his name. "Allah Korashun, Maahes." Allah Bless you, Maahes. A hand raised, touched to his heart then to the crest of his turban shrouded head. The soft lisp of a female voice followed suit with the blessing though it could have been the wind if he weren't listening. Fatima thought the name appropriate but she uttered nothing more than the mirror of blessing her father had given him. "I am Byram of Jerusalem, along with my daughter Fatima. We come here in peace and with haste. My Lord, we seek Master d'Aquitaine and it is imperative that we speak with him." He would take whatever succor that the Lion would give, but he was firm in his mission. Brusque in his movements, he motioned his daughter to fall into step behind them as they began to move through the streets. He struck the same pose as he had before with the Goblin King, hands clasped firmly behind his back with his head tilted slightly downward. A man of great and long thought, of serious action and careful planning this Physician seemed to be. His language once more that of their homeland. "I am not a poor man, but my current journey has been indeed hard on us if for no other reason than to weary the spirits. I myself, nor my daughter seek no trouble here. But trouble has either come already, or will be here soon." A dire prophesy? Or simple warning? It was still swirling there in the air between light and dark. (d

Ada:

Ada was displeased that this was who they were looking for, and mentioned so in one of her favored French phrases that so succinctly summed up her feelings, but she grinned, and squeezed Pere's hand in return.  "I wanted to thank you for not dancing with me at my wedding.  Jean-Claude would have taken it poorly.  I would have found it amusing, and our marriage might have been anulled that very day."  With a bit of a laugh, she fell quiet, walking beside some of her favorite menfolk, and trying to catch what she could of the conversation while Nasrin trailed behind, falling into step with the near-silent Fatima.  They were two of a kind, Ada thought.  Nasrin did not speak loudly, either, if she spoke at all.  Strong, silent types, these Oriental women. *

Peregrine:

"I wouldn't have danced with you no matter how hard you begged." Was a bit harsh coming from this one, who nearly tore his heart watching her marry his best friend. "Stay out of the Underdark." With that he slipped back into the night, rather jaded on the whole subject and already hot on the trail of the ship that brought them in.

Maahes:

The Beast was a tall man, one who towered over many, and he simply would take in this man before him. The name had not surprised him, the fruit had lots of contacts it seemed in his outside life. Yet, no matter how many thought there was nothing left of the brain this animal carried, always did he surprise with how much the simply minded General was in fact an act, "The Dressmaker was recently married. I do not expect him to return this week. He and his wife took a retreat. I will find you refuge for the night, in secured rooms, but I will not send word until the morning." Turning on the man then he heaved a great breath, as now he was leery of this family. He had every right to be. They were born in lands that were barbaric (but hey its home) where an eye for an eye meant a life for less. "You will be given what you ask for ambassador reason," He spoke in English then and it sounded very rich across his lips, "You are still stranger to this land, and those who ask for that name have many reasons. You understand." By his attire alone spoke of his rank, the crest of the lion on his chest spoke of his true trust. "An observation while I send for who you speak." With a nod of his head the Captain would step in to escort them. Maahes would wait for Ada, while eyes went over the oriental woman there by her side, "And you will tell me why you go looking for trouble. Trouble find you." (d

Byram:

He had not heard that the Clothier would not be available, nor that he had married. It seemed that no matter his haste in getting from Italy to here had been for naught if he could not find who he sought! "I have refuge, Good Friend. Fear not that Allah has provided for myself and my house." He felt pride in this man, whom he knew only as Maahes, the Lion Headed God. "It is a matter of great importance." Though he tried, he could not seem to stress the importance of his task.

Fatima:

"My father speaks, truly." She spoke finally, a lisp of heat with all the passion of a sandstorm. Speaking out of turn was unlike her, but the momentary mutiny would be just that before the flash of honey colored eyes was lowered again. Her English was flawless, her studies having been difficult at best but she wrested the foreign tongue until she was it's master before switching back to Arabic. "If you are a man of good standing with this court of strange intrigue, then find us the Serene One. It is she my father seeks." It wasn't often that Fatima was impetuous, but then every soul had its moments and hers seemed to enjoy the gamble. That and her father was so very, very tired. Why couldn't they see how all this business with the Italians had aged him? (d

Maahes:

For a moment he was quiet going about them as if trying to read them, like lines on a page he did not understand. When did his heritage seem so distant, and so foreign. He had been on this Isle for far too long. With his body half turned he studied them before turning to face the man speaking directly to him at first, before finally settling his eyes within the woman's. There was something so haunted in them that caused his chest to ache and tighten around his heart, he would do anything for her in that moment. Though if Maahes would go and get her, perhaps the Italian Princess would return in chains. His Captain came forward to correct the woman, but Maahes held up his hand. There was no reason to give his rank and title now, they were not fools, "Go to your shelter. I will send to you the man that you seek. He will help you with what he can." Jean-Claude was known for his hospitality. "Should you need any further assistance, you can find me in the arena most every day." That would be as far as the Queen's Lion would offer them, but strangely he had almost wanted to follow them when and if they returned home. However, Maahes felt himself turning his back on them far too easy as it was a form of torture to watch them, and he suffered with just hearing their voices. Never had he felt he would ever feel as drawn to the desert as he was now. Maahes was homesick, and when he looked at her he was home again.

[Master Claramae St. Laurence]

Selection

A fire roared in the open space of the grand fireplace. How many places for fire to eat wood in the house were contained in the building was one no one ever asked. No one ever asked the little questions with idle fascination whom had lived in the home long enough to appreciate the value of mystery left to become antiquarian; what mattered was that where stone was used the tapestries kept out what cold could still travel. After all, water flowered under it, around it. Scottish winds liked to try to find a way in, always licking at the outer Italian window panes. Up Roman columns, whispering in mosaic mouths, over fresco angels. Heat could have outright burned the layer of velvet across the arms of the woman who looked over a single list of names from which to draw from, as one draws cards.

Claramae was antiquarian in how things were done despite the advanced opulence contradicting the notion. All of the foreward facing war was a product of foreward crowns who poured their money down, down until it all but materialized on the back of horses, armor, and weapons, dropping down on fields until the treasury was drained. Necessary? The practice was for the state, yet what was behind the crown's curtain had needed to come to the fore for its own benefit. Scotland could not remain with its already established dynasty, oh no. Mavericks war crowns, rogues coronets, and here they all were defending it: The population of the order was a dominant mixture of English, French, Italians, Scotts, and the angolified mixtures of Celt and French alike. The Auld Alliance lived side by side with the papal legacy. Now the curtain exposing them had closed again, allowing them to do what was truly necessary for suvival: make marionettes move.

Who did away with enemies, routed their plans, made firm friendships, if not the intrigue practicioner? She hadn't intended to be hobbled as she pieced together what she hoped would be the magnum opus of her beloved practice of subtle manipulation, but the Italian affair would be every bit about Don Marcos Antonio d'Ercole and the loyalty he kept, just as it was every bit about changing the crowned heads of Naples and the hands under it, moving around the mad man. "By my hand you were made and by my hand undone, though put aside..carelessly." Italy had been her proving ground. Before and after the great tragedy, d'Ercole had been a means to an end. Her master bid her serve him out of interest to see what he knew, and to truly give her the field worthy of a master. Even when she seperated from Sorschal, she hadn't gone far at first. Yet, to survey his intentions was to learn everything she needed of his house yet to never remain loyal. His motives were to say the least, lacking. He was as much cobra as she, only in no hand did he coil. No one's guardian was he, save his own interest. Pietro di Alberto, yes. He would be the first man. A Sicilian who inhabited the halls out of sheer want to remain close to the style he most admired. Pietro, son of Alberto. To d'Ercole's cobra, Pietro was an Egyptian asp ready to curl around any fig he plucked. "Yes, Pietro will go. He shall guide, especially, and his father shall be the second." Alberto, still alive, was already on the continent. Ready, waiting. Alberto di Raphele. The sirname was simply the name of every patriarch before. But the second? "Maria la Romano."

Pietro di Alberto, Alberto di Raphele, Maria la Romano. Whom else? Whom else? "Two italians, and one of our own. One italian, and two of our own." Pietro and Alberto were obviously a group unto themselves. Alberto was a landed contact whom could reach any household. d'Ercole and d'Este. Oh by God. She reclined back now in a chair, if one could call it that. Rigid back, it too velvet clad, touched not its cousin in the apolstery but kept no less than two inches of space. The young princessa, Queen by all right, was younger than the intrigues that helped to secure a reign youth once thought worthy for was it not so blessed by cardinals and saints? Perhaps like deCervillion she, too, had seen the lineage pulled back to show the ugliness underneath. One of the first scars that faded in to her body was recieved from the contact with the shadows. The Chamberlain had tried to poison her, when that didn't work,he tried to have her killed. No doubt he pondered long on the fact of her ascention from mere low ranking yet old nobility to one breathe away from the crown. On opposite ends of the world they sat, did he hope that she would meet her death? Had he heard of how she sat in England for a term, a public battle waged? Now that she survived her service to King and Queen Aberdeen just as she survived the end of Avaria, she was allowed to indulge her own particular devices again. Lombardi.. Rodrigo Lombardi. The name appeared as if before her very eyes. He too was already there. Now, whom would go of her own? If a Welshmen could surrender his old life to become Italian, than a Scottsmen might as well so blend just long enough. There was a particular son of the Argyll coast whom would do, though he'd lived under the name of Lorne. David Lorne. Perfection. Had that man been but a few years older, no doubt he would have supped with them during the golden age of old London.

"Yes, Lorne, and one other. I shall ponder.." A messanger would be sent to fetch the young Italian as to tell her that the pieces for the game of chess were chosen. In consideration of where they were from, it was the finesse of old attributes that allowed her access to them. Lorne was one of the last admittants to the Order of Roses before it merged, seamless and with no trouble, in to the Order of Ebony. The others, the Italians especially, were former Ruby Asps that benefited from the close alliance with the Order, rogue though it was, based enough on principle to save them all from obliteration some years prior. Scotland was worthy of notice for it was a bastian of bodies that moved, warm, with a thousand secrets. Without meaning to, the vein of the world changed when the crown took on its own spies. In their world, Turas Lan was tadamount with Rome, Venice, Fllorence, Paris, London. It carried the same weight now as Barcelona and Madrid. All of these places were merely some of those that held great houses or organizations as a whole. The world would be disgusted if it new just how much the esoteric pushed the spin of the world.

She couldn't deny that part of this mission was purely personal: Since her youth she wished to see the problems in this land of Naples corrected. Enemies she had killed? True enemies, yes, but the scruples at which others were killed whom were like her were nasty. Everyone turned on everyone else. She was one of the few left standing, almost to her own chagrin. There had been a time not long after the death of her Master and the absence of Sorschal she wanted her own death. Now? Now she had a chance to do what was done elsewhere, that rectified old decisions, gave absolution to youth's ignorance. She would tell Ana-Catalina the stories of old. No doubt it dawned on her now that perhaps she helped to add to the collection of enemies in that distant room. Yet? Make no mistake, this would be done with appropriateness. At the same time..

Madonna: By now, thy mind has puzzled over the matters at hand with great difficulty. Your questions are many, and answers, seeming few, will be provided for you. I am what you know me to be and what you have seen with your eyes, nor have you reason to fear that I am an agent to your demise. My loyalty is unwavering in nature to the Phoenix upon which the seal is forged, and in turn to the Griffin, for whom it shares a political nest of sorts. You by now realize the grave situation you are in. Age, alas, will not wait to bare you hence to throne, nor marriage, nor even guarantee your survival unless you enact agents of wit in the dark. Your Chamberlain will not die, but after you will see the supreme nature of his indifference to mercy. I am compelled to inform you that it has been requested of the Duke Aberdeen to sojourn in estates in your homeland awhile on a matter of some business, to which it is known he will be delayed, given the courts sorrowful state of present affairs. What in this do you play? You are now an affair here, as much as within Italy. There is no difference now, as Europe is being thrust up to a a place this winter to which Armageddon seems to be near ensuing. The employ of Lord Vizharen is a capital move, to which the benefits you shall see almost immediately. His business nor yours shall I detain from completion. Only know it is your Chamberlain with whom business remains unfinished. He will rise, warned, yet determined to continue on. Ah me. If you wish to know wherein the demise of your family ensued, looked no more than to his or the lists he keeps, rolled in tiny parchment, inside of the crucifix 'pon the Apartment's chapel wall. The read will be most enlightening, but be sure to place it back again. I will close in saying should you wish business conducted where Percival, on Principal, will not go, you may seek me out. My eyes are at once many and my own, but my loyalty, if sought, is unwavering. Age has seasoned judgement. May life grant you such a thing, and long may you reign.

Claramae Aisling St. Laurence.


She read the letter she had left for the girl when she first arrived. How did she get that back? Some things were simply not asked in a house that favored the antiquarian air of mystery. She began to write another note she would present to the young woman detailing the exact ways in which certain entities would suffer. Being Italian, it would be no mystery to her that she intended to see the Chamberlain suffer just as much as his Master. Her brother's death would be quick, painless. His son would be spared. These the first deaths. In the shock of the shuffling world turned to mourning blacks the remainder would play out in accordance with a wish. Juana would be questioned, torchured, and her hand delivered to the remaining entities. Let them grow suspicious! "It will be pinned on some outer enemy, vilified and they will turn to him for answers, for relief.."

Italy was a rife with its own poisons, it was there she perfected her skills. The Chamberlain too, bastian of information that he was, would need to be made to look as if he would lose control. His abilities,questioned. A world unraveling by discrete degrees? As she looked out the window to the falling rain she well invisioned it would become as cold as his blood, making it stop all together.

"I told you we were not finished, so you think to make a fool of me in youth..well, we are not so young anymore." If she were within her thirties, he was older still. Too old. Over lived. Juana's death would be unto mercy compared to what would be waiting for the Chamberlain. Discrete, detailed, yet no less vicious. "No, we are not so young."

An empty mason jar sat on her desk, waiting to be gilded when its contents was in place. It waited for the man's hand, with his signet ring attached. It was a traditional way at times to show a deed had been done, and a very blunt way of expression. His hand in the jar, the fingers broken before the limb would be cut off. Part of her wished to have him taken over the sea for the pleasure of dismantling him the way he did so many others, but it would keep him alive too long, too much mischief. Alas. Unlike him she bowed down to aspects of gaining age, injury, and sense. No. She would simply send over one of her favored blades to cut him apart with. He'd know what he was looking at.

It was, after all, a favored selection.