Author's Note: I wish to thank those who read the last chapter and left a review. I would also like to thank the guest reviewer who pointed out a minor historical fault in my second chapter. It will be dealt with soon. I am always very grateful to those who help me with historical accuracy as I am by no means an expert when it comes to renaissance history haha. But I try. I have not posted a chapter the past few weeks as I have had finals and had to give my time to complete them. I have some finals in January as well but that should not stop me from posting over the holidays. I hope you are enjoying your holidays you're your family wherever you are.

A TALE OF ANGLOA

Chapter 10

January 11th 1520, Cadherra

It was an eerie morning as the robust sleigh set out for Coldwick. The usual elegant carriage was tucked away behind the stables as there was no way it could travel through the thick snow.

The moon glowed faintly in a pale yellow as the travelers descended into the valley and toward the flatlands in the distance. Fog had descended from the mountains yet again. It wasn't until they emerged from it that they, at last, saw the bright, starry sky, giving way to the bright yellow orb that slowly ascended in the distance. Christine felt her heart skip a beat as the dark, mysterious night around her gave way to the light of day. The dark blue sky turned into a lighter purple as it transformed slowly. Then it changed into a myriad of oranges, reds, and pinks. The strong horses dragged the sleigh in a fast pace and she continuously twisted and turned in her seat to see everything around her. As did Maria, who had never been to Cadherra before.

Tristan and Joseph sat facing Christine and Maria. The fact that Christine's presence was demanded at court should've made her soar up in the clouds. But her thoughts found themselves occupied by the magical landscape around her. Neither she nor Maria noticed the way Tristan looked at her. For even if he was still sour with her, the look in his eyes spoke differently.

Christine wondered why the king wanted her to come. She knew Tristan had not liked it. She had received a letter from the king's secretary as well. Nevertheless, Tristan had felt it necessary to tell her himself.

The young woman had urged her mother to stay back and take charge of the household in Adelton together with Mrs. Hammond. She did not want Lady Amelia to go through the ordeal of being at court once more. Christine knew the older woman had suffered last time from the malicious glances, the cold shoulders from previously close friends, and the constant mockery they had received. Christine had only taken Maria with her, knowing her maid would always serve her loyally. It was the only person she trusted to the fullest in that sleigh.

Tristan told Lucius to stay behind. He needed someone he could trust to stay outside of Wessport for a while. Lucius was tasked with watching over Adelton Hall and Alan Moore. If he ever needed him he had instructed his friend to turn over the spy to Saxton. Tristan suspected that he would need him soon, though. But he said that they would only keep in contact by writing, in code. He had instead asked Joseph to travel with him. He trusted the younger man, but he knew he could not give him the same burdensome tasks that he could give to Lucius. Yet, he wanted someone with him he could trust on the inside.

January 24th, Wessport

James Fell ate another grape and downed it with a big gulp of Madeira as he settled further back in his comfortable, velvet cushioned chair. The monarch sighed at his ever growing headache as one of his advisors recited the list of matters that needed his attentions.

"Furthermore," the rotund man continued, his voice a high pitched one, sweat dribbling from his protruding forehead from having stood up for so long. "We have to choose our allies now more than ever." James reached for more wine, but the otherwise calming liquid tasted vile and bitter in his mouth. He felt that the weight on his shoulders had only grown heavier as the war with England had ended.

Lord Athar, Lord Braun, Lord Alistair and a handful of other men were in the room as well. They had their own wine to sip, some downed the alcohol to ease the stress they were feeling of having to help the king run the recovering country.

"I believe we do not need allies at the moment. The peace treaty with England still stands, I hope? And as for the mainland, let us not get too involved in those issues." Said James as his jaw tensed. He wanted nothing to do with the mainland continent. It was a war-torn place full of powerful, potential enemies that could lift a finger and have his island in a matter of months.

Lord Athar cleared his voice as he put his own cup of Madeira down. "You majesty will forgive my bluntness, but look at what happened to the Italian peninsula. It is a divided territory with Spain claiming the south and France battling for the remaining lands in the north. We can no longer ignore that beyond our borders, to the east, there are some powerful nations that are now switching their gaze toward Angloa." A general silence fell over the room. The high council of his majesty consisted mainly of older men who had known Angloa in her youth as she flourished under King Philip. They had never known another threat of invasion except one from the English.

"And what about this new craze that is spreading across the mainland, with this mad man preaching another form of Christianity?" Asked another man. It was Cardinal Thorpe, the ordained Bishop of the Catholic Church in Angloa and appointed cardinal by Pope Leo the Tenth. The man wore the characteristic red robes of a cardinal and the red hat with a rather disgusted look on his face. Cardinal Thorpe did not seem too bothered about the political ramifications that Angloa was now facing as winner over the English. Rather, he seemed much more disturbed over the emerging new take on Christianity.

"You mean this German fellow? Oh, I am sure his voice will soon fade away as the masses realize that there is no deviation from the true faith." Said Alistair, the others wishing for him to just shut his mouth. Cardinal Thorpe took great offense at what had been said.

"He already has the attention of several countries and if his ideas were to spread to Angloa we would see an even bigger downfall here. The whole of Europe is breaking apart now more than ever!" He exclaimed, standing up in a furry as he huffed and puffed while looking around the room. No one dared question the Cardinal, as that would be questioning the church itself.

"We all know how the church enjoys its privileges, Cardinal Thorpe. But what matters now is that Angloa must unify, now more than ever. We are weak, Europe knows this. We could not stand another invasion." Came the burly voice of an old man. It was General Fawkes, the most decorated general in Angloa. His military rank greatly outranked General Hawthorne as a grand general and first marshal of Angloa, protector of the land. The man was old, his once dark hair and goatee now gray and dull. But his full head of hair, his neatly trimmed goatee and beard, together with his fit form and charming smile still secured him a favored place amongst the ladies of court. Even though he was well over sixty. He had the stamina of a bear and a great hunger for battle. Although he had never been as good at strategy or at battle as Hawthorne, he was still more experienced. His input in war had been greatly appreciated by the younger general. Fawkes respected Hawthorne for it.

"What will Spain and France do, when they are too occupied nagging at each other all the time?" Said Alistair haughtily. The man was a fool, many wondered what he did in the council in the first place, for his input and opinions were never wanted.

"Spain, my dear boy," began Lord Athar impatiently, "Is now the most powerful country in Europe after King Charles received the crown of the Holy Roman Empire. He has the backing of Rome and his kingdom does nothing but grow ever since it discovered the riches of the New World." There was a slight pause before he continued as it was clear that all men in the room were now clearly listening to what he was saying.

"As for France, England, the Ottomans, Russia, Scandinavia: they all have one thing in common. They are a threat to us. Until now, Angloa has enjoyed seclusion. Mainly because we were an insignificant English colony, an island populated by farmers who did nothing but obey the English crown. But ever since the independence, and now, with our defeat over the English, we have shown that we are a strong nation. We have caught the eye of the other sovereigns. If we do not act smartly in our diplomacies, we might very well see another war."

"That is why Angloa needs to come together now, more than ever," James said as he put down the cup and got up from his chair. "We are entering a new era! This is the time, whether you like it or not, where the lords of the land must step aside and let their king do what he was born to do." Lord Braun got up, seemingly offended.

"So you ask the lords of this country to what? Give up our lands to you?" He sneered, his face twisting into a frown as others joined in. James only chuckled.

"You all want me to unify Angloa once and for all into this strong, independent nation. To do that, we must step into the sixteenth century, Lord Braun. How can I, as a king, govern my country when I have disagreeing lords left and right? If you want to ensure Angloa's well-being, then you must hand the reins over to me." He said, sitting down seemingly satisfied with what he had said. Athar sighed, for he knew that what the king said was right, but he also knew it would take much for the other lords in Angloa to accept it. And how could they? He was sure that some would rebel against James. The last thing Angloa needed now was a civil war.

Another man stood up, he was frowning as deeply as Lord Braun, but where the other knew to keep silent, this man spoke truthfully. "By what right do you stand there and ask this of us, the ones that have kept Angloa on her feet by paying out of our own pockets? By what right do you demand that we give up our power to you?" King James noted the outburst from the other man; Otto Savoie.

"By right of birth and thus, by right of God." He simply said, challenging Savoie to further question him, to give him a reason to throw him in a dungeon and charge him with treason. Speaking out so brashly against the king could be considered as such. When no one said anything James continued.

"We will have this discussion later. But you all know where my thoughts rest. To stop this threat, we must get over our own differences and unite, now more than ever." He finished. Signaling the men in the room to leave. They gladly did so, clearly displeased and James was sure that the subject of their discussion would soon float through the corridors of the palace. Athar was the only one that remained.

"Perhaps it was too brash, your majesty, to make public such opinions so quickly?" Athar asked. He was worried as well. He understood why the king wanted to unify the land and to centralize the power, but it would be a hard and arduous task.

"I have already sent for the lords from the dukedoms and counties of the country to come here by the end of the month. Most have arrived. I want one and all to be present as I unveil this idea, it is fair. And I think most will be very willing in complying with me as, after all, any hesitation would be considered an act of treason. A threat of war with the mainland is another good reason for unifying this land as well." James said. He knew there would be resentment against him.

"How can you be sure that there will be no rebellion against you, your majesty?" The wrinkles in Athar's face only deepened as his worry grew.

"You know why I'm doing this, Athar." James let his worry shine through for the first time that day. "I must know who has been plotting against me all this time. This new petition of mine will be sure to bring out the worst of the lot. I am sure that there are those amongst my lords that are in on the plot."

"That is why I urged your majesty one year ago to keep Charles Vega alive. He could have given us more information." Athar said solemnly, thinking back to his old friend.

"Charles Vega was dangerous, Athar. I had to execute him. I just hope that leaving his daughter and wife alive was not a mistake." Came the solemn, and tired voice of the king who sat down with a heavy sigh in his chair, staring at the half empty crystal glass containing the red liquid.

"Have you called on Tristan Hawthorne to come here then as well?" Athar asked.

"Of course. All that have been called, do not know why. I have prepared a document they must sign, giving up their personal armies to the crown. We must strive to be a powerful country if we wish to survive for the future."

January 25th

Christine had not been in her family's townhouse for years. They had arrived at the Wessport harbor early that morning. The mist that gathered around the port had almost made it impossible for the ship to find its path and dock. Instead, Christine, Maria, Joseph and Tristan had to descend into one of the smaller rowboats and row to shore with a sailor. Wessport was not as cold as Cadherra, to her surprise. But the waters were still cold enough to have a thin layer of ice on the surface. Every so often, the sailor had to stop and hack away at the black ice so they might reach the docks. They eventually did. She did not complain as they stood there, shivering in their coats as they waited for a carriage to arrive and take them to the inner circle of the city.

She felt a sense of urgency as the carriage moved through the quiet streets of the capital. It was still too early for the city to come to life. The lower circle stank of sewage that had frozen during the night. She looked out and saw the narrow houses with steam puffing out of the chimneys. Just as Adelton, the inhabitants of the city did all they could to keep warm by throwing wood on the fire.

Soon they reached the inner circle of the city and eventually, their destination. Christine felt her heart swell in her chest as she saw her family's townhouse for the first time in eight years. Her arrival turned bittersweet. It was exactly as she remembered it. On the outside, nothing had changed. It stood as a separate building in one of the many round squares that dotted the inner circle. Its structure was that of an extended rectangle with two towers on either side. Each tower had a pointed roof in dark blue tile. The main building had a raised roof in blue tile as well and it bore two windows, shining some light into the attic of the house. The main building was shorter than the towers that guarded the entrance, probably only three levels. As the house was medieval, the windows were quite small and it did not let much light in. However, the back of the house had been renovated after a severe fire fifty years earlier and so, the windows there were taller and bigger, letting in more light to what was the main hall of the mansion. The entrance was a tall, roman arch with a grand mahogany door, reinforced with iron strips, running across it in an intricate design. Above the door rested the crest of the Count of Cadherra, now Tristan's coat of arms.

Some servants were there to usher them in and as they walked in through the small covered courtyard. A big marble staircase led to the next level, a timid servant girl turned to her, diverting her eyes from Tristan as she spoke.

"Your chambers have already been prepared for you, my lords, my lady." She said while she curtsied. "Would you like to venture to them for rest or would you like some refreshments in the grand hall, or in the parlor perhaps?" She asked, keeping her eyes on the floor and her hands folded in front of her. Christine understood the poor girl, and saw, to some degree, herself in the younger woman. She remembered how she had also behaved that way when she had first met Lord Hawthorne.

"Take us to our chambers," Tristan said. His tired and tense state was evident in his voice and it reflected how all of them felt after such a long and tedious journey. The maid curtsied again and took them up the staircase and through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Christine recognized none of the rooms. It seemed as if all of them had been refurbished since she had last come. She understood then that her mother must have sold most of the furniture to keep them fed and living in relative comfort. But she was sad to see that the chairs, paintings, tapestries and carpets she had gotten so used to were gone now. It only made the house more alien to her.

Joseph was soon shown to his rooms on the east end of the second floor. Maria was taken care of by another passing servant, who was to show her the servant's quarters, on the first floor, next to the kitchen. Christine, Tristan, and the maid continued walking up another elegant staircase in uncomfortable silence. The maid stopped abruptly in front of an elegant oak door and turned around, announcing another chamber. Christine was so caught up in her thoughts and plans of how to ask her favor of the king that she bumped into Tristan. He did not even turn around to scold her but kept his attention on the door. He longed for the bed that lay on the other side, inviting him to come sleep in it.

"Here are your lordship's and ladyship's bedchamber." Said the maid as she unlocked the door and opened it for them. She quickly walked into the room and opened the drapes to let in some light of the rising sun. She lit a few of the candles in the silver candleholders.

The room was smaller than she remembered. Its windows were horizontal rectangles with a thick glass that let little light in. To one side there was a vast four post bed with a roof and curtains in various colors of greens, swirling in a damask pattern. They could be drawn around the bed, offering more protection from the cold and from prying eyes. At the foot of the bed there lay an elegant chest containing the linens. Her father's desk and her mother's old, white dressing table were still there, kept intact as time had drifted by. There were two other doors in the room. Christine already knew where they led to. One was the door to the walk-in wardrobe and the other, right next to the bed, led to her father's old study.

The maid turned around, expecting them to enter and settle in for the morning. Tristan stepped forward first, looking around curiously at the elegant room. It had been furnished in the Italian style as was quite the fashion lately. Christine realized then that the servants of the house thought them both married. But before she could say anything, Tristan spoke.

"This will not do." His voice was low and grave. The maid jumped in her place as she heard the irritation behind the words. Tristan turned around, slowly, placing all of his attention on the poor girl that pressed against the wall.

"No, this will not do at all. Miss Vega needs her own chamber." He simply said as if anything else was unimaginable.

"My lord?" Squeaked the young maid as she fiddled with her hands. But before he could say anything else, Christine stepped in, deciding that she could not let the girl expire from the fear she was going through.

"What his lordship is trying to say," she began, softly. Her voice broke through the dark aura that had emerged in the room. It sounded as the voice of reason to the maid's ears. She immediately placed all her attention on the young woman, while still feeling Tristan's eyes drill holes into her. "We are not yet married, so it would be improper for us to share a room, much more so a bed." She said, blushing faintly and pointing toward the vast bed that was clearly meant for them both.

"Oh, we were informed that there had been a union between my lord and my lady. I deeply apologize." Squealed the maid as she turned redder than Christine. Tristan only muttered something neither of them could hear. Christine understood how uncomfortable the maid must be feeling and asked to be shown to another room instead. The young woman did not hesitate, for she would do anything to get away from his lordship. And so Tristan and Christine parted ways for the first time since the start of their trip.

It was nighttime before the three of them reunited in the dining hall. They sat at one end of a table, too big for three people, eating away in silence. Christine had nothing to say to either of them. Every time Joseph tried to start a conversation with her she disregarded him. She was still angry with him and wanted him to suffer a bit longer before she accepted the countless apologies he had offered during their journey. Tristan did not speak at all, he just sat there tense and thoughtful. Neither Joseph nor Christine interrupted his train of thought. He was planning what to do the coming days. Tristan knew he had to investigate John Fletcher, the man that Alan Moore had mentioned several times.

The masked man glanced at Christine as she cut her meat into tiny pieces, focusing too much on the task in order not to have to look up and meet their glances. She was dressed in a dull cotton brown gown. The square neck was lined in black rabbit fur and the sleeves sliced to allow her white undersleeves to be pulled through and puffed. A fashion that had arrived from Spain and Italy.

Tristan was still hurt by the way she had used him. He did not know if he could trust her again because he never knew if her approaches and kind inclination to him had been real. Had she been acting during the Christmas dinner or had her reactions been true? It was something he kept asking himself the whole journey. He knew he had scared her when he had unmasked her. But the initial fright seemed to have died away and now she seemed distant from him. He knew that their relationship must have never been meant to be for there were too many obstacles in their way since the beginning. He had not even thought of marrying her ever since arriving at Adelton. But now he understood the implications of a lack in marriage. Their union had been expected upon arrival at the capital which meant that it was expected at court as well. He did not even wish to think about the subject, but there was a choice to be made. Should he marry Christine Vega, for her own benefit, or should he cast her aside? He was already Count, so what did it matter? But Tristan already knew the answer deep down. He knew he could never leave her to the wolves that inhabited the world. But he also knew that her being with him now, more than ever, was dangerous. A long sigh escaped him and both of his table companions seemed startled.

"My lord… er, Tristan?" Asked Joseph slowly, getting used to using Tristan's first name. It was something the masked man had insisted on during the journey. He was tired of hearing "my lord" all the time.

Tristan rested against the back of his chair and looked at them. He took a good and long look at Christine who ignored his eyes, even though she could feel his intense stare on her. He snickered inwardly. He had never known her to be this proud and thickheaded before.

"Joseph, come with me. I have a favor to ask of you." Tristan finally said. His rich, strong voice boomed through the room and sent some of the maids jumping in their place, taken by surprise. Christine kept ignoring them and cut away at the metal plate. Joseph stared at Christine, wanting to say something but one look from Tristan made him go silent and follow the masked man. Tristan was handed a candleholder with a lit wax candle in it to be able to find his way through the dark and gloomy passageways of the mansion. It was not as light and elegant as Adelton. The mansion was heavy in some sorts. The weight of generations and history clung to the stone walls and the smell of time and forgot wafted through the rooms. Its stone floors had all been reinforced with elegant mahogany boards, lining the passageways. But even the dark wood did little in lightening up the medieval layout. Tristan and Joseph felt themselves transported back to a simpler time as they graced the many corridors. In the distance, they could almost imagine the chant of a church choir. Monks singing a melancholy tune of old, as they dwelled deeper into the building, deeper into the past and its turbulent history.

Tristan had brought Joseph to the most secluded area in the whole building: its foundations, its cellar. It stood on a foundation that had its roots in the Roman Empire. The light lit up the vast room and the low roof pressed down on them. In some corners, elegant roman pillars could be seen, dirty and in rubbles, as forgotten as the empire that had made them. However, the last few decades had seen a reemergence of the ancient civilizations and such relics of the past could bring him a pretty penny. But Tristan stared at the lifeless marble stone, feeling that this was where it belonged, in its original place. In one corner, ceramics, mosaics and even pieces of marble statues had been excavated and left there to gather dust. Joseph neared one piece of marble, almost whole except for a missing hand, its features and torso dulled through time. It was muscular, bent to the side as if casting something. He flushed as he saw that the piece of art was naked. But he marveled at the very lifelike body before him.

"There is something of great importance that I must ask of you," Tristan said, turning around, facing a curious Joseph who kept going through the ancient artifacts. He put them down and stepped further into the light, meeting Tristan solemnly.

"You want me to kill someone for you?" He asked, deadly serious, without blinking. Tristan was surprised, but he did not let it show. He never knew Joseph would be willing to kill for him.

"No." He answered gravely. "But one day it might come to that."

"I understand."

"I want you to follow someone around without him noticing you." Tristan commenced. "I only know his name, the rest is up to you. I want to know everything: where he goes, where he's coming from, who he speaks with, who approaches him, everything."

"Consider it done," Joseph said, no questions were asked. He did not question Tristan anymore at this point because he knew to trust him. But he could not ignore that he was curious. He understood that it must be a grave matter if Tristan had brought him to such a secluded space, away from prying eyes and curious ears.

As Tristan and Joseph emerged from the depths of the cellar, a footman came to him, it seemed as if he had been looking for him for quite some time.

"My lord," he said and bowed deeply. "This just arrived for you." He handed him a letter and even before opening it, Tristan knew who it was from. He took the crisp, white paper, neatly folded and sealed with the royal seal. Tristan went straight to his chambers, disregarding both Joseph and the footman. The only thing that preoccupied him was the letter. He had barely entered his room when he broke the seal and ripped the paper open. He only had to read it once, for it was short and to the point.

The message was an invitation for him to come meet the king in two days' time. It said nothing more. It did not mention the reason for his summons nor who else would be there. Tristan threw the paper aside. He had two days to plan for this meeting, two days to get ready for whatever might be thrown his way.

January 26th

Christine felt the rays of the sunshine on her closed eyelids. She could hear the lively city outside of her room as she slowly awoke. She had been shown to her childhood chamber, something that had also changed since her last visit. It was more modestly furnished than before. It only housed a large bed, two wardrobes in painted oak, a dressing table where Maria could do her different hairstyles and a coffer for the linens.

The young woman could hear carts and horses outside of her window as it faced one of the main streets of the upper circle. She stepped out of her bed and felt the hairs on her skin rise as she realized how cold it was. The covers had provided her with warmth and protection during the night and her modest chemise did little in keeping her temperature up. Her feet found the slippers in the dull light and she reached for the tall, thick windows, pulling the heavy maroon drapes aside, letting all the light bright up her room.

From where she stood she could see the snowy street and rooftops bellow here. The cathedral bells sounded in the distance as fine carriages and merchants coaches pulsed through the snowy streets. This was the upper circle, there were restrictions on how many merchant stalls were permitted, which made the streets emptier to her. Yet, she could see the middle and lower circle in the distance, puffy clouds of white rising from the thin chimneys and climbing toward the endless blue sky. The winter morning was crisp, but not as cold as in Cadherra. The fresh scent of bread wafted through the air. She wondered if it came from one of the bakers of the upper or middle circle, or if it was the mansion's own ovens at work that morning. It was strange for her to be there, in that room. Last time she had been in Wessport she had only been allowed to live in one of their homes in the middle circle. It was a clear step up from the hut they had been living in previously. King James had declared it living quarters fit for them to live in. Christine had declared it a prison, falling apart and ridden with rats. The piece of land he had allowed them to keep in Cadherra was barely worth anything and so they had scraped by as best as they could then.

A knock sounded on the door and before Christine went to open it, Maria stepped inside with another woman. Christine deemed it to be the housekeeper of the mansion. She was nothing like Mrs. Hammond, not as endearing or sweet. This was a tall, thin and quiet woman who looked as if she had her heads up in the clouds. Her brown hair was tied loosely at the nape of her neck, a braid placed across the crown of her head like a diadem. She wore a dark blue dress with a black apron instead of a white one, like the maids of Adelton Hall.

"Miss, Mrs. Rochester and I are here to help you select gowns for the coming social season." Said Maria timidly, as she stared at the woman by her side. Christine frowned slightly. Their presence was most unexpected and she wondered if it was because the housekeeper was curious to get to know her better. She had no intention of going to balls and events. She knew she was not welcomed and she did not feel much like receiving threatening and pressing glares from those around her.

"I never asked for such a thing." She said, while going over to the wardrobe. She opened it and looked through her small ensemble of clothes. "What I have here will be fine." She showed, closing it again.

"If I might miss," came the calming voice of Mrs. Rochester. "Several invitations to different balls and receptions have already arrived. Being the fiancée of a count has its duties." The housekeeper said firmly, making Christine's jaw clench tightly. She understood then that this was an opportunity to get closer to the king. She was sure he would attend some of the gatherings. It might be enough to get her close to him just for a few minutes to beg a favor of him. But attending such festivities and social events would mean that she must once again put herself in the eye of the public. Christine knew of many malicious men and women at court who would stoop to the lowest of levels to see her humiliated. The fact that she had yet to be married to Tristan Hawthorne would serve as a conversation starter, not to mention the rumors that would stem from it.

"What seamstress would even think to come to this household, in fear of her reputation?" Asked Christine, turning her back to them to watch the horses, carriages and people drifting by outside of her room. Mrs. Rochester walked to her wardrobe and opened it once more, inspecting the dresses it held.

"I am glad you asked," she said, very chipper. She wrinkled her nose at most of them. None of Christine's simpler dresses pleased her.

"No, no, this will not do at all. Most of this is out of season, or awfully boring my dear." She continued as she inspected the gowns. The only one she seemed to approve of was Christine's mint gown lined in light brown fur. But other than that, she disregarded the rest. She turned around dramatically, Maria rolled her eyes at the expressive woman in front of her.

"I think signora Coticelli would be more than helpful in getting you a new wardrobe for the season." Said the brunette as she kept going through the dresses.

"An Italian seamstress?" Asked Christine surprised.

"But of course. It is nonsense that the seamstresses should all be French when it is la moda italiana that is in fashion, anyway. They all only copy the fashions of Venice, Florence, and Sienna and so on. Signora Coticelli is actually from there."

"What is the downside?" Asked Christine.

"Well, she has not made a name for herself yet."

"Then how come you know of her."

"She is my close friend. Give her a chance and she might surprise you. You know already, my lady, that few renowned seamstresses might take any of your requests. You are already late in requesting gowns be made for you for this season." Christine stepped back from the window and the light, backing deeper into her room. She would do whatever it took, she had promised as much to herself.

"Have her brought here as soon as possible." Came Christine's determined voice.

While Joseph was nowhere to be seen, Tristan himself had taken to search the middle and lower circle of the city for Sofia. He had donned a disguise, placing bandages around his arms and face, implying that severe, fresh burns, hid under those white linens.

Tristan stalked the streets, his hood up and torn clothes hugging his lean physique, bending over as to not appear as tall. He felt free, now that he was someone else, now that he was not Tristan Hawthorne. He had not felt this free since Constantinople when no one had batted an eye at his peculiar way of dressing. It was, after all, a city where west met east, and its inhabitants were more than used to peculiarities. He remembered the big buildings with splendid dome-shaped roofs, the oriental stalls, and markets, exotic smells, music. Enchanting women walked its streets, looking at glinting jewelry, elaborate fabrics, and colorful spices that the merchants fervently tried to sell. He remembered how Sofia had bargained their way through the enigmatic and pulsating city. It had charm; it had character, and he found it elegant. Wessport was different. As his heavy feet grazed the streets, he could not help but find it rustic. It was like any other English or north European city. He felt as if he had traveled back in time. Its infrastructure needed bettering, its streets needed repairing. The sewage system was almost nonexistent. The many wonders that the Romans had left behind felt completely ignored. Even if they were slowly rediscovering the wonders of ancient Rome and Greece, people leaned on what they knew, the way of life they were used to. He ducked as a woman warned and threw a bucket of a mysterious, brown liquid he rather not inspect closer. As he descended into the lower ring, he got to see the poverty of not just the city, but of Angloa.

Tristan had barely been to Hayes, but he could only imagine that its outskirts were similar. Even though the last decades had seen a rebirth, a renaissance, as the French so eloquently put it, the lives of the bourgeoisie and lower classes stayed the same. Nothing had changed for them. It was something he would indeed take up with the king. For how could a country achieve anything when its people all lived like the simplest of peasants?

His feet knew where to take him and soon he stopped in front of Sofia's old house. It looked dark, and the door seemed completely bolted shut. He peered in through the window and found what he had expected all this time, nothing. There was no sign of her. Tristan felt the empty hole she had left in his heart start growing again. He would never confess it to her, but he cared for her. Instead, he stalked home, up to the middle circle. There, in an alleyway, he changed out of his torn rags and bandages and quickly into a doublet, a leather jerkin, a fine cape, his mask, and gloves. He passed into the upper circle unnoticed as the tired guards did not even bother to check the identity of the hooded man. He snickered at the poor security within the walls. It was something else he would take up with not just his majesty, but with General Fawkes and the Captain of the guard as well.

It was afternoon when he arrived at his estate. When in the courtyard, Tristan noticed a rather peculiar horse tied to the long pole that was used for visitant's horses. The mare held her head high although she was well into her winter years. Her caramel coat was dull and ridden with white hairs, taking further from its luster. Her white mane was a mess and pointing in all directions. The saddle, if you could even call that thing a saddle, looked like it was at least half a century old and of military grade. He walked in, shedding his cape and handing it to the first footman he saw.

"Who is visiting?" He asked without pause. He knew well of his own reputation within the walled city. He had not yet made acquaintances and those few he knew would call on him first. Yet, he thought back to that horse, those few men he knew did not have such horses in their stables.

"Signora Antonia Coticelli, my lord." Said the footman, his mouth in a thin line. He seemed tired, distressed at being in close proximities to his lordship.

"Who?" Started Tristan, confused at the mention of the name. He did not know of any Italian here in Wessport. He wondered if it was an acquaintance of Christine's.

"Tis' best if you saw for yourself, my lord." Said the footman, walking toward the corridor on the upper floor that held the parlor, showing the way. As Tristan reached the corridor, he could see several maids stand gathered by the door leading to the vast room, some peering in. Tristan neared, and they quickly stepped aside, giving him a deep curtsy. At first, he gave them a severe look, and they bent under that stern gaze of his, quickly dispersing like rats, making sure as to not get in his way. Tristan suddenly heard a squeal of delight that made him jump in place. He looked at the door, it was slightly opened, probably by the maids that had been spying on whatever took place inside. He knew he shouldn't, but he inched closer, as stealthily as he could, and casually peered inside.

"Si, si, this will be perfect, this will be amazing! I will create a masterpiece!" Came the brash voice of a determined woman. She stood in the middle of the room, looking at someone in the room he could not see. The parlor was very grand and had been completely refurbished and brought into the sixteenth century. Its floors were carpeted in rich Persian carpets. One of the walls was lined with Venetian glass and it had a sitting space, a space for musical instruments and even a small stage, where minor concerts could be held. Colors of deep red, gold, deep maroons and dusty beige coursed through the room, muting the other colors that were present in the tapestries and portraits that lined the walls. The centerpiece of the room, however, was the portrait of King Philip of Angloa, magnificent and grand for all to see. It was common to see a portrait of the late king in most Angloan households.

"You will be the envy of every ball, signorina!" She said dramatically. It was a petite woman with bright red hair, bearing streaks of silver. It was so bright that it seemed to shriek at whoever watched it. She wore an elaborate gown that screamed of bad taste. The bright green sleeves had a vast number of slits in them, puffed to the maximum, making her arms balloon out. The skirt was more like different strips of different kinds of fabrics that had been sewn together, also ballooning out, making the short woman look larger than she was. Christine watched wide eyed, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

"I understand, Mrs. Coticelli, but I only wish for some simple dresses for the season."

"No no, Signora Coticelli!" She exclaimed, with a pointed finger. Christine flinched.

"Well, singora Coticelli, I have no wish to draw that much attention to myself." She stated firmly. Antonia took a step back, her hand reaching for her heart as she heard the words. She seemed insulted and her black eyes widened in shock.

"I once worked for the Medici, the Borgias'! I know what works, I know my art!" She exclaimed, acting as if she were performing a theatrical piece for an audience. But then she calmed down and walked out of Tristan's view. She reached for Christine who stood elevated, being fitted for several gowns.

"Signorina", she said, gathering her wits, looking straight into Christine's lavender eyes with compassion. "I do not know the reason you hesitate so, you are beautiful, you could reach such a high potential if you would only let me help you." She spoke, her Italian accent making her sentence jump all over the place, her deep, brash voice clawing the words. Tristan finally stepped in to see what all the commotion was about.

He pushed past the door and entered the room. For the first time, he saw Christine, in nothing but her brassiere and her chemise. The setting sunlight invaded the room and shined through the fabric, allowing Tristan a perfect view of her slender yet curvy figure. She was taken by surprise and took one of the many fabrics on the floor, covering herself with it. Tristan soon regained his composure and looked at the Italian.

"What is the meaning of this commotion?" He asked gravelly, making Christine swallow loudly and the few maids in the room slowly back away, returning to their duties before he dealt with them as well. The only one who didn't seem to mind Tristan was Antonia. Instead, she eyed him and began to close in on him.

"Hmm," she began, completely unaffected by his commanding presence or his mask. She paced around him, looking him up and down, taking mental notes of him until Tristan himself felt more agitated and unnerved.

"Who is this woman?" He demanded in brash words to Christine. She clung to the muslin fabric, growing redder by the minute.

"Signora Antonia Coticelli." She said, timidly at first, trying to regain her own composure. "She is a seamstress." As Tristan and Christine exchanged words, Antonia had neared him and began measuring him without his permission. She completely ignored him when he stepped back, surprised at her forward gestures.

"What in the world?" He exclaimed surprised, and Christine put a hand over her mouth, growing redder, trying to remain unaffected by the comical scene. Antonia only seemed irritated.

"Stand still! How can I take measurements if you move around all the time?" She snickered at him, yet he noticed how her eyes avoided his own a little.

"You are not making any garments for me." He strictly said and looked back at Christine. "And who gave you permission to call on her?" Tristan exclaimed severely. Christine removed her hand from her mouth and a frown replaced her smile. She stepped down from the pedestal and moved toward him, slightly reluctant at first, but gained confidence as she came closer.

"Maria, please escort signora Coticelli to her horse. I think she has what she needs, have her return in a weeks' time to show the progress she has made, and for fitting." Christine said. Maria did not hesitate to comply and dragged Antonia out of the room, the older woman protesting loudly, saying how she was not done with his lordship.

"I gave myself permission, I called on her." Christine was firm in her resolve. But Tristan could not take her very seriously when she stood in practically her underwear in front of him.

"You are to stay in this house until we leave Wessport. Henceforth, you are to receive no one. You are prohibited from attending any ball or feast and if you disobey me, I shall send you on the first ship back home."

"No." Her hands in fists and her jaw tense, Christine met Tristan full on. "I am not your wife, you cannot tell me what to do. And even if I were, you can still not tell me what to do." He inched closer, angered by her outburst.

"You will stay here if you know what is good for you."

"Oh, I know very well what is good for me!" She retorted, her voice rising in unison with his. "What is the reason for detaining me in such a way? Am I your prisoner? Have I committed any sin that obligates you to lock me in this dreary house?" She questioned forcefully, breathing deeply and regaining footing as Tristan shook his head, feeling a sudden migraine. He was tired, so many things were going through his head. He just wanted Christine to cooperate for once. But she was as stubborn as a mule. She had regained her headstrong composure and although Tristan scared the wits out of her at that moment, she would not back down.

He could not confess that he wanted her in the house because he knew they were being watched by someone in Wessport. Someone powerful was breathing down his neck, and he already felt guilty having brought Christine this far along. He cast one final glance at her. He'd rather have her hate him, despise him than worrying or trying to help him. She did not know what might wait on the horizon. He wanted to shield her, put her in a glass box where no ill words, glances nor hardships could reach her. Her lavender eyes were alive with fire, a fire he had never seen before. It won over her fear and shyness; it was a determination she held, something he did not know about. Tristan laughed in his mind at the irony of the situation between them. How many times had he found himself so close to her? How many times had he just wanted to reach out and touch her, feel her soft skin in contact with his? Her growing presence was like a cruel taunt sent from forces above. He knew he could never go further than stand close to her. Perhaps a dance or two. That was it.

She hugged the muslin tighter to her chest as Tristan remained silent. His eyes always in the shadow as much as he himself. For the first time she realized that she hated the mask. She no longer cared what it hid. All she saw was a barrier that further separated them. His reasons for detaining her, his hidden thoughts, everything was shielded in shadow. She now started to understand more of the man in front of her. He hid, not just from her, or from those around him, but from himself as well. Her expression softened as she tried to search something in that masked face of his. But she only found his mask and neutral lips in a thin line.

The cathedral bells sounded as the last rays of the sun left the room, now only lit by a few candles. The light was dull, casting more shadows over Tristan while it shone brighter over Christine. In the music of the bells, they stood without speaking. No words exchanged yet, so many words seemed to pass between them.

"I know why you have the urge to attend these festivities." Tristan's dark voice shattered the peaceful silence between them. She wondered if he still hated her ever since he had found out that she had tried to use him to get to Wessport.

"Then you know that I will stop at nothing." She said with a strong and proud resolve. Tristan felt hopeless for the first time as he looked at her. Something within him foretold that Christine's determinedness would cause severe consequences in the future.

"Nothing good has come of your meetings with the king. And it will not change." He said, turning around and leaving her alone in the room, alone with the echo of his words. It was only when he had left the room that she understood what he meant. She realized that his presence in her life, although irritating at times, with how stubborn he could be, or with his unsavory mood swings, had made her overcome her fears and grow as a person.

Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter. Please feel free to leave a review, I always appreciate them! Thank you for reading