ONE

Now that the time has come

Soon gone is the day

"Master Clinton! Master Clinton!"

Clinton Bartolomeu, Seneschal of Darian Castle, sighed and set down his bow. This was the fourth time he had been interrupted this morning and it was grating on his nerves. Whatever it was had better be dire indeed for the servants to keep harassing him. Whoever had called for him now began to pound furiously on the heavy wooden door, the hinges creaking with the force of each heavy knock. A muscle ticked in his jaw and he got up, taking the necessary six long steps to the door and pulled it open with such force his shoulder almost popped out. The knocker, a woman who looked barely past twenty summers, stumbled back, her mouth working silently in surprise. She wore the simple garb of a common servant, the plain linen dress stained with dirt from working in the garden. The hand that was still raised was clean but he could still see tiny patches of dirt as if she had washed them in a hurry. The leather belt she wore was worn and looked ready split apart, if the cracks and tears were any indication. Her hair was pushed back from her face and tied into a neat braid, a scarf of dubious white linen covering her head. All this, he took in within two breaths.

"For the love of God, woman, keep your voice down. It is loud enough to wake the dead."

She clutched her hands in front of her, eyes apologetic and pleading. "Forgive me, Master, but Lord Ferox has requested your presence in his quarters. You must make haste. He is in a foul mood yet again and has frightened the servants away."

Bartolemeu sighed, wearily this time. "Do you know the reason why I am summoned?"

"No, Master. Milord has only ordered me to fetch you but he did not give a reason why."

"Very well then. Go back to your duties." He thanked then dismissed her, closing the door as she rushed back to the abandoned gardens. Instead of washing up and leaving, he stood there for a moment longer, resting his head on the door. Nicolaus Ferox, the Viscount of Darian. Lord of the Darian Castle and its inhabitants. He was also Bartolemeu's foster father. He closed his eyes, arranging his thoughts then opened them, straightening. The times that Ferox became this irate was when something was very wrong and the man did not like not having things his way. Bartolomeu washed up using the remaining water from his pitcher and left to speak with his lord.

No one engaged him in conversation besides a quiet greeting as he made his way through the castle towards Ferox's quarters. He saw no fault with that as word of Viscount must have reached everyone's ears by now. Ferox was never one to stay quiet when maddened. It would be best to hurry and find out what the whole ruckus was about before the servants all abandoned their duties to flee from his wrath. He reached Ferox's room, the guard standing by the door nodding him through with a sympathetic glance. Bartolemeu shut the door behind him then ducked. A wooden goblet cracked against the door where his head had been, clattering on the stone floor and rolling a little ways away from his feet. Calmly, though his body was still tense, he turned around and bowed.

"My lord."

"Barton." The word was growled out, anger coloring it red. Bartolemeu – Barton – barely suppressed a sigh at the name. Ferox had tired of speaking his long name and so had shortened it to Barton, a more compact version of his first and last name. He did not dislike it but he would have rather the man call him by his birth name once in a while. Although, he thought, watching a vein throb on the man's dark skin, asking it right this moment might mean his death.

"You summoned me, my lord. How may I serve you?" Barton's voice was quiet with enough inquiry that it did not spark any more of Ferox's temper.

"Read this!" Ferix threw a scroll at him and he caught it deftly in one hand, glancing at his lord before rolling the paper open and reading what was written. It was a good thing Ferox had allowed him to be taught numbers and letters. A requirement, really. His service to Ferox was more than just as a seneschal. He arched a brow at what the words revealed to him. "A bold move, my lord."

"Bold? Bold? He has no business insinuating himself within William's court." Ferox's mouth twisted and he sat down abruptly on a stool. "Nor does he need the benefits of such a move. The man has wealth and power aplenty."

"The more a man has, the more he shall want," Barton murmured, earning a sharp nod from Ferox. "Perhaps he is looking to gain allies at court. There is talk of several delegates from other kingdoms arriving and presenting William with tokens and gestures of friendship."

"Not that they aided him when he needed them most. Leeches, the lot of them. And that man is no better." He muttered several more curses, each one more vile than the last. "Barton!"

"My lord?"

"Have you heard of the Baronessa of Ledyanye?"

"Vaguely. Is she not married to the Blood Baron, Ivan Romanov?"

"Indeed. Although the man has passed through the gates of death, three summers past. She is a widow."

Barton frowned. "But she holds the title of Baronessa."

"No children. And the title and lands belong to her."

"The Blood Baron was a commoner?" He was aghast at the thought. Commoners and nobles did not mingle. Ever.

"A commoner with noble blood," Ferox said, cold amusement in his eyes. "Bastard born of some whelp of a nobleman's family who was too busy spearing every pretty girl to notice the seeds he was sowing. Sit down, Barton."

"Yes, my lord." He sat down at one of the stools closer to the door but angled his back away from it. Years of training had taught him to never allow himself to be exposed to attack. "So this Baronessa. Did she not realise his base born birth?"

Ferox shook his head. "From all accounts, she was very much aware of it. Perhaps that was the reason why she married him."

"You do not know?"

"No one does. Neither the Blood Baron nor his Lady spoke of it. It was unheard of, of course. They were shunned, effectively shut out of all political discussion and 'polite' society. Well, until the Blood Baron made a name for himself. You can understand their predicament, yes?"

"Defy a man who could and would tear their lands apart or persuade him to have mercy on them with apologies and promises of acceptance. They decided on the latter?"

"Not after a lord spat into the Blood Baron's face and told him he would never humble himself to apologise to a bastard."

"Fool," Barton muttered, shaking his head.

"A dead fool," Ferox said. "They found his body hanging from his castle battlements, naked with his house banner burning beside him. The servants who had resisted were piled beneath his corpse, throats slit."

"And the ones who did not resist?"

"They were given a choice of serving the Romanovas or another neighbouring land. Most stayed."

"Brave souls. Were they not afraid he would kill them in their sleep?"

"The Blood Baron may have been many things, Barton, but he was also fair to his vassals. Apparently, the Baronessa had a hand in that fairness, herself. Well and so, the servants stayed and the other nobles stopped shunning them."

"Then the Blood Baron died."

"Yes. Which is likely why the Baronessa is now here to visit the King. With Ivan at her side, the Baronessa was formidable but now that he is gone, she is now able to marry another. Likely, she had been pressured to marry one of the noblemen."

"I doubt she enjoyed that."

"No, she did not. Stupidity was never her fallacy. The nobles just wanted her lands and her obedience."

"She fled here to England then."

"Not immediately, no. She went to the Franks first, hoping they would help her or, more likely, searching for a husband who had no plans to steal her property away. Then she came here."

"Why?"

Ferox looked unhappy now, his brows drawn deep over his liquid black eyes. "And that, Barton, is the reason you are here. My spies have not found out her purpose here and I am not leaving anything to chance. Not when she is so close to the throne and William." He pointed a finger at Barton. "Your purpose is to find out everything about her stay here. Why she came and what she plans to do in the future. It is your task and a very important one. You will not disappoint me." The last sentence was spoken with a flinty look.

"I will not fail, my lord." Barton held the man's eyes, steady and direct.

Ferox nodded, his eyes never leaving Barton's. "You will leave on the morrow. Before dawn breaks. For all intents and purposes, you are the escort of Dame Maria, Lady of Hilcrest. She will be my other eyes and ears at court."

"What is her assignment, my lord?"

"None that concerns you, Barton. All you need to do is find out everything I want from Baronessa Romanova. And before you ask, I have the temporary replacement for your duties here. No more questions. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord." He knew his duties and he knew Lady Hilcrest would do hers well enough. He trusted in her abilities. "I should make preparations for tomorrow then."

Ferox nodded and waved a dismissing hand. Barton got up, bowed once then went to the door. Ferox's voice stopped him before he could open it. "A warning, Barton."

"My lord?"

"The Baronessa is a score and eight summers old but she is purported to be a great beauty. Skin, pale and glowing like pearls, eyes, blue as the Mediterranean sea and hair, a beautiful copper red. And she is deadly as the metal in it's poisonous nature. There are rumours that it was not only her husband's prowess in battle that won him such notoriety. She is sly and she will use her wiles on anyone that may be able to help her. Do not allow her any knowledge of you or Dame Maria. Now go. I must rest for this day wearies me."

Barton nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He said his goodbyes to the guard waiting and returned to his chambers, ignoring the curious looks from the servants. He had preparations to make for tomorrow's journey.

00000

She was a Romanova and she would bear this humiliation.

A snicker came from one of the women in front of the fireplace and it was all she could do to not leap across the chairs and stab her needle through the little bitch's throat. As it was, her hands were shaking from the rage she held deep inside. The little chits had decided to take apart her hard work while she had been absent from the room and now here she sat, the tips of her fingers red and raw from the needle pricks, attempting to sort out the mess that was supposed to be an embroidered cloak. She had better things to do than this useless work! There was a tiny ripping noise and she looked down, seeing the tiny tear around one of the embroidered tree branches. In her anger, she had pulled the fabric instead of the thread and now it was ruined. Re-stitching would take more hours of sitting and cursing and now, she had had enough.

If those foolish girls wanted a reaction, they would get it. She threw the cloak into the basket beside her and shoved the thread and needle into their little box. The stool had no back but it did not deter her. She crossed her arms, her back ramrod straight and stared over at the group with a cold look. She was patient. They were not. After several long moments, the girls realised she was not budging an inch and tried to ignore her piercing stare. Conversation slowed then eventually died until only a frosty silence filled the room. Even the sound of the needle sliding through fabric was unbelievably loud. Natalia did not move.

"Strangely quiet for a hall. Is that not so, Philippa, my dear?"

Lord Anthony Stark sauntered in with his wife trailing behind him, an exasperated look on her face while a number of older lords followed. He stopped and studied the situation before turning his full attention onto Natalia. "Lovely Natty. Please tell me you did not aggravate the dear girls yet again?"

"Lord Stark." She stood abruptly and made as if to leave. She did not want to spend more time than was necessary with this man. He was far too sharp and intelligent to see through her. But it was more that his presence was extremely irritating. If she hadn't seen him with other people with the same behaviour, she could have sworn that he attempted to provoke her with every opportunity. She felt pity for his wife, Philippa. "Your presence is a delight but unfortunately I have other things to attend to that need my immediate attention."

"Ah ah." He stepped into her path, a small smile dancing on his lips. "If I am so delightful then you should stay a while longer. I'm sure we have many things in common, yes?"

The words were flirtatious but his eyes weren't smiling. Instead, they were thoughtful and she could very nearly see his mind working. On what, she did not know and did not want to. "I must insist."

"So do I. Ah. Perhaps there is someone who is waiting on you and I am in the way?"

You are in the way regardless. "No, my lord. But -"

"But nothing!" He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her towards the fireplace, guiding her there. She went unresisting. Like as not, Lord Stark was a powerful man and to decline him again without good reason would have been a slight. If not the man himself, then any number of nobles residing at court would call for her to be punished. She shot the women a cool glance before seating herself as far away as possible without appearing to avoid them. The skirt of her black dress rustled as she adjusted them so they would not wrinkle later. Ivan had died three years ago and she was well within her rights to be rid of her widow's weeds but she had found it was a great deterrent for the amorous young men who tried to woo her into their bed. She had professed sadness and mourning still at her husband's passing and if the lords would graciously leave her be for the time being. Most accepted that. Others didn't. She grimaced inwardly at the memory of one of the more determined men groping her when he had caught her alone. Rutting pig. If a group of ladies had not come by at that moment, the man would have found himself lacking a necessary appendage for future children. Her arm pressed into the small dagger hidden within the folds of her sleeves. She never left her room without it.

A warm hand rested lightly on her shoulder and she looked up to see Lady Stark leaning over with a smile on her face. "Lady Romanova, would you like to accompany me to my room? It seems I have forgotten my needle and thread."

"Nonsense, Philippa. I am sure there are spare ones lying about that you can use," Stark said, thumping into his own chair that a diligent servant had procured. "No need to leave yet."

"I would rather my own tools, my lord. Or are you going to hold me hostage once more?" Her tone was tart but there was an underlying humour beneath it, so cheeky that even Natalia's lips twitched. The reference was to when Stark tried to have Philippa's father agree to their marriage, and when the lord refused, he had her kidnapped. Of course, the woman had been willing but they still needed her father's approval so it was a case of merely waiting. Philippa was dearly loved by her father and Stark's power and influence had to be taken into account as well. It took six long months before he agreed to the marriage by which time, the lady was already three months pregnant. The wedding was a rather quick affair.

Stark chuckled, his eyes warm with affection. "A sharp tongue you have there, my lady. I shall have to see to your punishment later. Now off with you."

Leaving the room with the women tittering in scandalised whispers and the laughter of the men, Natalia kept a step behind the countess. She felt a slight pang now that the humour of the situation had faded. Ivan had been a lot like Philippa in his personal life. Teasing and laughing. He would always try to make her laugh, or smile at the least. She missed him dearly and his death devastated her. And then those bastard nobles tried to take her lands and Ivan's conquered ones away from her. Her jaw tightened. Never.

"You look ill at ease, Lady Romanova. Is something troubling you?"

Philippa was regarding her with some measure of concern, having slowed down to walk even with her. "Nothing, my lady. And please, call me Natalia. It is a mouthful otherwise."

"Natalia, then. You may call me Philippa." Her smile was warm and genuine and Natalia relaxed. Here was a woman who had no air of deceit around her. Unlike me.

"Philippa. Thank you for rescuing me from that room."

"I have no inkling of what you mean," she said, her smiling eyes belying her words. "Now. Have you heard of Dame Maria Hilcrest?"

"The name sounds familiar but I cannot recall ever meeting her."

Philippa hooked an arm around Natalia's with a scandalised but excited look. "A beautiful woman, she is the rumoured lover of Lord Ferox. She will be arriving here within the next two days! Is it not exciting, Natalia?"

Natalia nodded in agreement, an easy smile flitting onto her lips. Inside, however, a cold knot of worry had formed in her stomach. No wonder the name sounded familiar. Lovers? Yea or nay. But if she was connected to Nicolaus Ferox then it was more than likely that this Hilcrest woman worked for him. Ferox's reputation for being...intolerant of foreigners was notorious and most tried to avoid him because of it. Even here, in the courts of the King, whispers abounded. To that end, she listened intently as Philippa continued to regale her about the supposed trysts that Hilcrest and Ferox had had. It would do well for her if she collected as much information about this woman as possible.

Later, when all were abed after a filling meal, Natalia opened a small box from her trunk, having hidden it in the layers of clothing she had yet to wear. She had refused the servants offer of help, preferring to do things her own way, which allowed the box to be kept secret. Making sure the door was barred, she sat down on the bed, her linen shift rustling. She opened the dark mahogany box and pulled out a pressed flower. Camomile, each petal fanning out from the center in a round halo. Her fingers stroked them gently as she allowed calming thoughts to soothe her agitation. Stark had continued his provocation all throughout supper and if it had not been for his wife, she would have stabbed him then and there. Infuriating man!

She sighed and put the flower back into the box, placing it gently over the other items that she valued greatly. The flower had been an apologetic gift from Ivan when he had been months late in returning home. Her mouth curled at the memory. She had given him a sound scolding and he had given her the flower he had picked and pressed on the way home. She had kept it ever since. Returning the box back into its hiding place, she rested her lips slightly against the smooth and polished wood. "Good night, Ivan."

She got into bed and pulled the covers up before leaning over to blow out the candle. It took her some time but eventually, she rolled over and fell asleep with no dreams haunting her.

A/N: So! My first Clintasha fic. I thought it might be interesting to put them in a medieval-like era and I had fun writing it out. Of course, going to a medieval festival helped bolster that idea. And I say medieval-like because I have and will continue to take a few liberties of how the 12thC is represented. :3

I hope you like it and please, reviews! I would love to read them. :)

The song used is Penelope's Song – Loreena McKennitt.