A TALE OF ANGLOA
Chapter 11
January 27th
"No, sire, this is outrageous! How can we do such a thing?" Lord Geoffrey Quinn said, outraged. Eighty-seven dukes, counts, and viscounts all sat in the main assembly hall where the king would hold meetings of state with his nobles. It was a round-shaped room, deep within the secure walls of the palace. Paintings of previous kings peered down on the men, severe and judging eyes looked as they were tasked with carrying Angloa into the future safely. Between the pictures there hung coats of arms of the royal family and the flag of Angloa. Tall windows placed up high in the room let the light cascade over the weary men. The king sat, facing them on a throne of wood and iron, with a golden, jeweled crown, a fine royal purple cape in velvet draping over his regal form. His doublet and jerkin matching with his cape in lighter purple and his breeches a deep beige.
Some lords stood or sat, depending on their rank. The dukes had the privilege to sit at the front on elaborate wooden chairs, carved by the most skillful masters of Angloa. The counts were next in line, standing behind the dukes, and lastly, came the viscounts. Tristan stood among them, dressed in his usual dark, informal clothing, looking more like an officer than a nobleman. He could feel the scornful eyes of the viscounts behind him as their eyes dug deep holes into his neck. The representative of the church, Cardinal Thorpe, was absent as he had sailed on the first ship to Rome, to the Vatican. The reason for his sudden trip was not made public to them.
Tristan saw some familiar faces, like General Anthony Fawkes, Duke of Castell and Protector of the Land. He sat next to Thomas Athar, Duke of Cantabria and the king's right-hand man, sitting closest to the king. Tristan kept an extra eye on him, for he was the one that Saxton had spoken about.
"It is a demand from your king, an oath I ask of all of you to swear." Said King James firmly, staring out over the daunting crowd of men. Most of them understood the severity of his requests, many were unwilling to obey. He was asking them to sign a document where they gave up their personal armies to him, which would be giving up all of their power to their king.
"Then what next? Shall you have us pay more taxes as well? The fact that we are already taxed, despite being of noble birth, is outrageous!" Said Lord Braun, stepping forward, claiming his title as Duke of Laënne. Behind him stood Lord Alistair and other men that agreed. Amongst them, Otto Savoie, a Frenchman who owned land in Angloa through marriage.
"This is not how we do in France." He exclaimed, deeply insulted by the king's suggestion.
"Well, Lord Savoie, we are not in France any longer." Came the burly voice of General Fawkes.
"It will indeed be a sign of loyalty if you put your name on this document." Said King James as he held up the parchment, on the outside, an insignificant piece of cured animal skin with some words. But those words were loaded with considerable meaning. "Who will be first?" Asked he as he looked about the room. All lords redirected their gazes and the first to stand up was Lord Athar, who took quill and ink, sealing the written word with his signature. Next came General Fawkes, signing as well. Some more viscounts and counts stepped up to sign the documents. But only a handful, they were men that were close to the king, they were in his circle.
To most of the lord's surprise, Tristan Hawthorne stepped forward and signed as well, agreeing to hand over his personal army and his soldiers. The king looked pleased. In a way, this whole ordeal was a sort of test for his lords. Tristan, Athar and Fawkes together with the others who had signed had passed. He now knew to confide even more in them than most of his dukes that only lingered in their chairs, looking away. When no one else stepped forward, the king took the parchment in his hand as the ink dried. A power struggle with anonymous participants had already taken its root in the country, the monarch had to act quickly. Thirty-five men had signed. He sighed loudly.
"It is a personal offense that not more of you have signed. But I consider those who have, to be loyal and honorable." He started, incriminating the dukes who had not stepped up. "I consider it also an act so close to treason that I might well have to imprison those who did not sign. Or I might have to take their armies by force." He said out loud, acting as if he were thinking about it. Suddenly most men got up from their chairs. All thoughts of personal honor gone as they were more fearful of their freedom and lands than their armies. King James smirked as he stared at the document being signed. After all was done there only remained seven men. Lord Alistair, Savoie, and Braun were amongst them.
"I take it that you rebel against me then?" Asked the king, leaning forward in his throne. Lord Braun stood up as if representing the group of men who had not signed.
"No, your majesty, but we need time to think this through. We are lords with powerful armies and feel that there should be a balance in this country. You have more than enough soldiers, you do not need ours as well. Yet, if it be your wish, let us return in a fortnight and convey what we feel should be altered in the document. Then we will give you what you seek." He said, expertly manipulating the words to his will. Tristan was amazed how he had managed to slither out of the agreement. King James had nothing against it and could do nothing less than approve. Tristan took great care in remembering the faces and names of the seven men before him. He was certain that amongst them, hid traitors. Amongst them must be the one Saxton spoke of.
"A fortnight, nothing more, Lord Braun." Said the king through gritted teeth.
The council of the lords was thus dispersed. Many had heavy hearts as the wave of change was brought upon Angloa. No longer could it be said that it was a complete feudal society. The nobles had given up much of their power to their king. James had proven to be a stronger monarch than anticipated.
As Tristan headed for the entrance and for his gray stallion, he was approached by a few men. General Fawkes greatly rejoiced in seeing him.
"Ah, Lord Hawthorne!" He exclaimed merrily as he neared Tristan, giving him a hard clap on the back. The general wore his black breastplate and decorated, tailored doublet underneath it. The black armor breastplate was purely decorative, serving to remind all who gazed upon the proud general that he was Lord Protector of the Realm. "You made me proud by signing back there!" He grinned at Tristan.
"I would never have gone against the king's request, my lord." Said Tristan. Lord Athar neared them now as well, worry was replaced by curiosity over Tristan Hawthorne. He had seen the man come and go to the palace during the war but he had never spoken with him. The man Tristan had spoken most with was General Fawkes. Lord Athar got a first good look at Tristan, he was impressed by what he saw. He could not guess his age, but he saw a strong man, with wit and determination who commanded respect. Yet there was a certain youthfulness about him that Athar could not explain.
"A true nobleman would never do such a thing." Said Athar as he neared, backed by some other lords. Tristan Hawthorne turned to face him, bowing in the presence of the powerful duke. Next to the king, Athar was probably one of the most influential and powerful men of the realm. Tristan showed his respects. Athar was impressed with the masked man's mastery of the aristocratic ways. He had never expected that he would already come to be so familiar with their ways and hierarchy.
"Blood never determined a man's true nobility." He continued. He understood that Hawthorne must be feeling the pressure of being a new aristocrat amongst so many old families. Yet most of their families had been much less than he, centuries ago. They had been merchant families or simple farmers, rebelling against the English and thus acquiring title and land from grateful kings. Such were the things of the past.
"It's the action that determines the man. And you, sir, have shown us all that you are a man of true honor." Said another man, standing next to Athar. It was a younger lord, a Viscount from the county next to New London. He was shorter than most in the group, with hair as black as night and eyes as green as a forest rooftop. He bore a goatee, a fashion that had started trending amongst the older gentry in Europe. He was dressed in elaborate tunics of velvets and cotton, bearing colors of deep green and dusty yellow. A two-handed sword clung to his hip. In fact, all men bore swords clinging to their hips. Only Tristan bore a one-handed sword, a type of sword that was starting to be referred to as a rapier.
"I thank you for your words, you honor me, lord…" Tristan began, not yet acquainted with the man.
"Ah, yes, we forget that you are not yet acquainted with most of us. Allow me," General Fawkes explained in a deep voice as he gestured toward the men. "I am sure you already know my lord Duke Thomas Perceval Athar." Lord Athar only snickered at the frivolous introduction.
"Lord Athar is what everyone calls me, Lord Hawthorne." General Fawkes only chuckled and continued.
"This lad here, is Lord Jonathan Linahan, third Viscount of Garette, close to New London." It was the dark haired man with the green eyes that had spoken before. "And these here are Walter Durun, Viscount of Durun, and Simon Rajac, Count of Labridia." General Fawkes said. Tristan did what he could to remember the names and the faces of these men, men who had been quick to sign the document in the assembly.
"For God's sake, General, do not introduce more men to Lord Hawthorne. For surely he will not remember all of us, and he shall think us offended when he forgets our names and titles!" Exclaimed Lord Linahan with a wide, boyish grin on his face. It made General Fawkes burst out into laughter.
"I shall not forget, my lords." Said Tristan. He was still guarded against them. He had been made aware of how fickle the courtiers of Wessport could be. He did not wish to take any chances and so he did not relax amongst them. The other men sensed his tense state and turned quiet as well. Only Lord Athar spoke.
"Lord Hawthorne, you should be prepared for more of these assemblies now. I suspect that His Majesty has taken a liking to you. I would not be surprised if you are included in the war council, headed by General Fawkes. But most of all, I sense that we shall all be reunited more frequently to deal with matters of threat to the state. Something must be done about the situation in Europe, we cannot ignore it." He said and continued his monolog about international politics. But it was as if he was speaking to deaf ears. Only Tristan and Jonathan seemed interested.
"Do not start with politics again, my lord!" Exclaimed Lord Rajac in a frantic manner. "Reserve such talk for when we are required to do it. Now let us speak of other matters. Lord Hawthorne, are you attending Count Savoie's ball for next month? It would be a great opportunity for your wife to properly reenter society." Tristan stood silent. His menacing aura extended in the hall and most in the group stepped back. Although they had found him to be short spoken and crude at first, now they found his presence overbearing and uncomfortable. Simon Rajac wondered if he had spoken out of term. He frowned slightly while lowering his gaze, not wanting to meet the masked face of the enigmatic man before him. General Fawkes placed a friendly hand on Tristan's shoulder, as he had known him longest in the group.
"There is no pressure for you to attend this ball, Lord Hawthorne, it would be completely understandable if you declined." He said sympathetically, referring to Christine. Fawkes understood well how hard it might be for her to be at such a social event. Yet, that was not what had irked Tristan the most. It was the fact that they also believed her to be his wife. He now wondered: had someone spread around that rumor? It would make Christine look even worse in the eyes of society once it was known that they had yet to be married. He knew not to trust such vital information to them yet, and he now knew that he could not allow her out in public until he fixed this mess.
"Her ladyship is strong, such things do not bother her." Mumbled Tristan, avoiding uttering her name. His thoughts were somewhere else. "If you will excuse me." He said, bowed and left the other lords to themselves.
"Well, this place shall certainly not be boring with this man here." Said a chipper Lord Durun as he tried to lighten the mood. Fawkes only sighed, already preoccupied for the masked man.
January 29th
Two women graced the frozen streets of Wessport in the upper circle. The market was filled with merchants from exquisite countries from the east or trading companies arriving from the west. They were by the fabric section. One woman bore a burgundy cape with a deep hood and her maid wore a woolen cape, yet showing her face. Christine was there, waiting for Antonia Coticelli, anxious. She did not wish to be recognized by old friends, and old enemies.
She browsed the different stands as they waited for Antonia. Tristan was completely unaware of their meeting, of course. She wanted to be angry with him, but she couldn't. The closer they became, the more she started unlocking his secrets. The complex puzzle unraveled before her and the more she understood about him, the more human he became in her eyes. The façade of the beast was slowly being plucked away. In her mind, it was always two steps forward, one step back. It was a long and tedious task, but she found that patience with him was her only friend at the moment. Christine understood that she had hurt both his pride and perhaps even feelings as he found out that she had tried to use her. She could not blame him, she would have reacted the same way, and not remain as civil as he. It was another show of how much of a gentleman he could be. But she would not succumb to his wishes and stay at home, like an obedient dog awaiting his master. She would not breech the subject, understanding that if he was reminded of what she was trying to accomplish there, he might very well resort to locking her up in the manse.
She wafted through the stalls, with Maria by her side. Last time she had been there was three years ago with her mother. They were on their way to pick out fabric for her new dress. She was to debut at court, arriving there for the first time. She remembered how excited and nervous she had been. She could see herself running from merchant to merchant, taking in all the varieties of fabrics, feeling the textile run through her nimble fingers, smelling their fresh scent and looking back at her mother. Now she stood here, again. Nothing had changed, and she felt herself transported back in time.
Some merchants specialized in oriental style fabrics arriving from China or the Middle East while others sold Italian, Spanish or French fabrics. Her eyes were drawn to a special piece of fabric and she walked over, her feet wading through the wet snow as her eyes hungrily took in the beautifully woven textile. She pulled off her light brown glove and let her hands brush the delicate material. It was a light blue silk, bordering on ivory. The color could almost be mistaken for white until it caught the light and displayed a myriad of lighter blue tones. It looked like the color of ice to her and the silk was lightweight and soft, gliding like water through her fingers, caressing her skin in a gentle manner. This was a fabric she had to have for one of her new dresses.
"A good eye you have, my lady." Came a brash Italian-accented voice behind her. Christine turned around to see Antonia Coticelli, dressed as frivolous as ever, mismatching greatly the composition of her attire. She wore a cloak with a deep hood as well. "Good, you came incognito as well!" She hissed in a whisper that was anything but quiet.
"Good sir, how much for this entire piece?" Said Anontia pointing at the ivory-blue silk. Maria cast a worried glance at Christine, wondering if they could afford it. Christine ignored her maid and felt her purse weigh heavy in her hand. She had brought more than enough.
"Ahh, I see that the Byzantine silk has caught your eye. A good piece of fabric indeed. That will be two gold pieces for the entire thing." The burly man said without shame. Christine felt her eyes widen at the high price. Antonia only laughed and then burst out in a tantrum.
"No, no! Two gold pieces for such a cloth? Does it have gold woven into it, signore? For I see no gold strands here. You might have fooled my lady here, but I am no fool. We shall give you fifty silver pieces and be done with it, or you shall lose us as customers for good. And we shall spread word of your heinous prices around town, no customer shall want to visit you again." She threatened. The man got visibly nervous as pearls of sweat started forming on his temples. He loosened his collar slightly.
"My apologies, madam, a man has to make a living. This comes directly from Constantinople by way of ship. It is incredibly hard to get now as the Ottomans are determined to sink every merchant ship they spot."
"The Ottomans and Angloa have a trading agreement, sir." Retorted Christine harshly. "We womenfolk know of politics too." She said, sounding offended. "Come, dear, let us go browse someplace else." She said, taking Antonia's arm in her own and turning away.
"Very well then!" Exclaimed the merchant behind them, "I shall give it to you for seventy silver pieces. That is my final offer."
"We will take it." Said Antonia smugly, "go ahead, my lady, pay the nice man." She grinned mischievously. The merchant felt his heart break as he saw the petty amount of silver coins pressed into his hands and the silken fabric being packed away by Maria.
They headed for the house, handing Antonia the fabric. She would stay and browse further. For there were more fabrics that she wanted to pick out for the dresses. Christine and Maria stalked the streets without speaking. Maria could notice Christine nervously looking around them all the time.
"No one will recognize you, miss." She reassured her. She received nothing but a forced smile while Christine pulled the hood further down to hide her face. As they reached the mansion they crossed paths with Joseph, who was arriving on his horse. He had been out the entire day, stalking John Fletcher, with nothing to show for it. When he saw Christine he was about to greet her, but she turned a cold shoulder to him. They had barely spoken. She now completely ignored him, just as he had done with Tristan during their long voyage. Joseph felt quite guilty as he had realized that he had acted wrongly and wanted to make up for it. But he knew that their friendship had taken quite a blow, and only time and rebuilding their trust would mend it.
"Miss Vega." He said, acknowledging her presence as she passed him. She did not respond although Maria curtsied with a sympathetic look in her eyes.
"Where were you?" Came Tristan's stern voice as they entered the house, shedding their capes. Joseph entered close behind them, mindful that the interaction probably was not for his ears. He therefore, asked Maria to come help him with a made up task, to get her away from there. While he passed Tristan, he cast him a glance, urging him not to be harsh on his fiancée.
"I was out searching fabric for my new gown. It is for the yearly winter ball that Lord Otto Savoie holds at his estate this year. If you must know all the details." She responded calmly. He was not her mother or father, nor her nanny. She was growing tired of his constant watchful eye over her, but she never let her slight irritation show.
"I told you not to leave the house." He said through gritted teeth. His anger and irritation growing by the minute.
"I know you did. Yet, I did not leave unaccompanied, Maria was with me." She felt no fear from him any longer, he could not toy around with her as he did with everyone else. But what was the use of getting tense and angered now? She had to resort to common sense and reason, or they would be snapping at each other forever. Christine knew that he must be appalled at her behavior in Adelton. She had tried to use him, after all, how could he ever grow to trust her motives again? But if she could show him that she could be rational while still obtaining her goals, then it would all end well. She had no wish to insult him as she had, but the young woman never realized that she was yet too proud to ask for forgiveness.
He was about to respond, in harsher words than he would have liked to admit when Christine cut him short.
"No more my lord, I have no strength today for your games." She said sadly and proceeded to head for her chambers. She hoped that he was not following, but she could soon hear his quick yet heavy steps closing in on her. She started rushing toward the safety of her chamber as Tristan picked up speed as well. Christine looked over her shoulder and started running frantically when she saw how near her he was. She felt herself being chased by a dangerous predator. Yet her slippers were not made for running and Tristan soon caught up with her. He took her by the shoulders and pressed her into the cold stone wall in the poorly lit corridor. His touch, even though through fabric, sent mild electric shocks through them both and they both breathed heavily after their spontaneous run.
"This is no game, Miss Vega," he growled into her ear. She could feel his hot breath and they sent shivers down her spine. She placed her hands on his arm to push him away, feeling the strong muscle beneath the shirt and doublet.
"Then what is this?" She questioned him while staring at his mouth. She could still not bring herself to look into his eyes. Part of her had come to appreciate Tristan's human side, the composed, respectful and quiet man who she was no longer afraid of. She wanted to believe that that side was his true side. Yet, she was afraid that in his eyes, the window to his soul, another part of him would show itself. Since Tristan hid his face, everything she perceived about him seemed heightened. A mere twitch of his lip spoke a thousand words. She was not yet ready to see the story his eyes would tell her.
Tristan, on the other hand, could not even think what to respond. For he did not wish to reveal to her that he did what he did to protect her. That would mean her finding out that he cared for her. It was a weakness she could use against him, it was something that had been done to him before, a long time ago. He would not be as foolish and trust a woman twice. He had learned his lesson and paid gravely for it. His anger washed away finally when he saw the inner battle in her eyes. He then understood that just as he was having conflicted feelings, Christine had them too.
"Trust me." He finally whispered. He squeezed her shoulders gently, then relaxed his grip and slid his hands down slightly against her arms. Christine felt her heart racing and all she could do was to nod, surprised. He let her go after a moment's silence without another word. As he started walking away, fighting hard to regain control of himself, she spoke, her voice breaking at some points.
"Will you trust me as well, someday?" She asked him. There was a certain undertone of hope in her voice that he could not ignore. Tristan's shoulders tensed and a new hope kindled in him now.
"Maybe." He murmured back, loud enough for her to hear. And in a second he was gone from the dark corridor, leaving Christine alone with her stirred thoughts. She leaned back on the wall and breathed deeply, a hand going to her chest and another one holding the wall. Two steps forward, one step back she reassured herself.
February 3rd
Lord Athar had to fight hard to stifle a yawn as the meeting progressed. They were once again reunited, discussing matters of politics and international relations. Angloa had no ambassadors to interact with other countries. It was something that might have kept the country safe from invading kingdoms from the mainland ever since its independence. But now both Spain and France had come knocking on its door ever since Angloa had defeated England and begun a peace ready and trading route with the island. Accepting an ambassador was a big affair indeed. It meant that Angloa would be further pulled into the political struggles of Europe, something no one wished for.
"We cannot allow for them to come here, to know of our own internal struggles, of our weaknesses." Said one of the lords.
"Yet," came the low, dark voice of Tristan. All eyes curiously turned to see what he had to say, for it was the first time he spoke out in the assembly. "If we do not accept, both Spain and France will take this as a personal offense. It is expected that we keep good relations, or at least in touch with our neighbors." He finished. No one said anything for they knew he was right. But soon Lord Alistair foolishly spoke up, always giving away his lack of intellect and knowing of the world.
"What would a warrior know of politics?" He sneered. "And for all we know, you might not even be Angloan, Hawthorne. We have seen no confirmation that you were. All we know is that mask you use to hide yourself." Lord Alistair smirked as he finished his little speech. Athar felt insulted even on Tristan's part. General Fawkes was visibly upset. But before any of them could speak out to defend Lord Hawthorne, he spoke up for himself.
"Politics is intertwined with war, something I am very familiar with, my lord. And as for being an Angloan, I can only give you my word of honor that when I say I am from this land, I mean it." Athar felt a chill rise up his spine at the cold words uttered by Tristan. "Furthermore," Tristan continued, "I would gladly show you what lies underneath this mask, but I am afraid that your simple mind could not handle it." He finished, his tone rough and cold, yet it did not mean to insult. Instead, it had been a direct threat aimed at Alistair. The other man did not speak and kept quiet. Athar, Fawkes and a handful of other men, including the king chuckled at Hawthorne's brash, yet truthful words. Athar found that he was having an ever-growing fondness for the younger man.
As the session ended he approached Tristan outside of the elaborate room where the assemblies were always held. He could not help but feel a small part of him wanting to step back at the intimidating enigma of a man before him as he spoke with General Fawkes. Tristan was dressed in his usual military-style garb. All black or dark colors and a simple doublet and jerkin. If Tristan wanted to succeed in court, he would have to change the way he dressed. Athar knew a good tailor Tristan could visit so that he might get out of those bulky clothes and into finer fabrics that suited his position.
"You spoke well in there today, Lord Hawthorne!" Exclaimed Athar as he neared. He thanked the other man respectfully.
"I only spoke the truth."
"And so you must continue to do. It is something we quite lack here in Wessport. Hearing the truth might ruffle some feathers, but I assure you that it is what the king needs to hear." General Fawkes exclaimed.
"I hope that you and your wife will finally join in on the celebrations of this year's winter ball? Even if it is hosted by Otto Savioe, he does know how to hold a big feast." Said Athar in a friendly manner. He had not known what to make of Hawthorne in the beginning. Athar had survived long at court because he had learned to be cautious. Yet, he felt that Tristan Hawthorne was a man he could trust. The discomfort his words had invoked in the taller man did not go entirely past him.
"It is not mandatory, of course, but I feel that we are many that would indeed be happy to see you there." Athar caught a glimpse of Tristan's eyes and was taken aback by the amount of expressiveness he found in them. He managed to catch the same cautious thoughts he would always have himself.
"I am sure it would be a lovely gathering but it would be impertinent for her ladyship and I to attend."
"Why no one would ever dare to remark about Mrs. Hawthorne's deceased father with you by her side." General Fawkes reassured Tristan in a cheerful manner. Athar felt a frown grow on his forehead at the mention of Charles Vega's name. But it was not that which seemed to irk Hawthorne. He sensed something else present and Athar wondered. He knew the troubled look in Tristan's eyes, he had had it himself before, when he had been young.
"I am sure no one would be foolish enough to speak of such matters in my presence." He muttered, thinking what he would do if someone did. Athar was glad he would not be the man to anger Tristan Hawthorne. "But no, that is not it, my lords. Miss Vega and I are not married yet. I do not wish for her to be put in the crossfire of some nasty rumors as to why we have not been wedded." He simply stated. Tristan said the words very matter-of-factly. Yet, he caught both Lord Athar and General Fawkes by surprise. But Athar still knew that there was more to the story.
"Oh, I see." Said Athar, puzzled and very curious. He had seen the young Christine before. He wondered what stopped Tristan from marrying her. But he did not inquire. Neither did General Fawkes.
"Rest assured, no rumors nor information about this shall come from our mouths." Said he, reassuring Tristan of their loyalty.
"Of course. But I fear that the servants in my household will have already informed any who cares to listen. By the time of the ball, most will know of this secret and I fear my fiancée will be the one to take the fall, again. No, my lords, I cannot do this, she does not deserve this." Tristan said. It did not go by unnoticed by both men how much Tristan seemed to care for the young woman. He was rather protective of her, more than he had to.
"Yet nothing stops you from coming yourself, Lord Hawthorne," Fawkes said. "I only say so for it would indeed be good for you to make more acquaintances. We know many men who would be interested in meeting you and who you can begin favorable friendships with. Here in Wessport, you have to know who to trust and who not to." Lord Athar was more than sure that Tristan knew to read between the lines; that he knew what General Fawkes was really saying.
"I shall think of it." Was all Tristan said. He was prepared to leave when Athar found he had to have a final word with the young man.
"A word of advice before you part," Athar began, nearing the other man, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. Tristan was astonished that Lord Athar even dared to touch him. From what little conversation he had had with the man, he found that he already had grown to like him. "If there is one thing I have learned from my marriage, is that communication is key. Talking with your intended, usually, solves minor problems. Being understanding solves everything." He said, giving Tristan a knowing look. Tristan only chuckled, inclining his head as a thank-you for the advice given. He promptly left the two men alone as he walked to fetch his horse and ride home.
"What was that about?" Asked a confused Fawkes. He was met by a snicker from Athar.
"You know, for always being in the company of women, you sure do know little about them, or the effect they cause." He stated. It only coaxed a deep sigh from Fawkes.
"Do you imply then that Hawthorne is having trouble with his fiancée?"
"One might not see it, but it is there. He might wear a mask, Fawkes, but even that cannot hide his thoughts toward the girl." Fawkes chuckled, joined in by his friend.
"I might like him more than I should." Laughed Athar as he saw the dark form disappear behind the corner.
"As do I!" Exclaimed General Fawkes. "It is too bad about his fiancée, though. To think that he has yet to marry such a fine specimen of a woman." General Fawkes said, letting his more basic needs take over his rational thought. Athar rolled his eyes and placed a hand on the other man's shoulders.
"Do not start that again with me." He sighed as they walked away, toward the entrance of the palace where a horse and carriage awaited them.
"All I am saying is that you are still young, Thomas! You can still partake in the delights of the flesh." General Fawkes chuckled. Athar sighed even more deeply.
"I know you think I am still young. But I will not soil the memory of my dear Rebecca, may her soul rest in peace."
Only two days remained until the annual winter ball. Christine did not know what to think whenever she saw Maria prepare her clothes. Antonia had sneaked in several times, for fittings. She was almost done with her dress for the winter ball and Christine was pleasantly surprised by the seamstress. The creation she had seen, even though it was far from complete, was the most breathtaking dress Christine had ever witnessed. But Antonia wanted to go further. She had a vision as she put it. Christine had handed Maria a bag of coins and her maid and seamstress had headed to the jewelers' and then to a shoemaker. Antonia Coticelli wanted everything to be as perfect as it could be. Christine saw the dress as a piece of armor, it would protect her long enough until she could get to the king and speak with him. After, she would disappear into the crowd and leave the party as quickly as possible. She had no wish to remain amongst so many malicious people.
"Miss, miss!" Came the desperate shouts of Maria as she practically barged into Christine's chamber without knocking. Christine had been sitting by the window, allowing the light of day to filter in, reading in moderate tranquility. She got up, worry and confusion seeped into her otherwise calm features.
"What is it, Maria?" Christine asked, putting away the book and taking the maid's hands in hers, trying to calm the girl down.
"Oh, Miss, we are done for." Exclaimed Maria between great breaths of exhaustion. It was evident that she must have run quite a distance to tire herself as much.
"Where did you come running from?"
"From the stables, miss, I was seeing to it that Mrs. Coticelli left unseen from the manse. I saw his lordship return and overheard him talk to the keeper, Mrs. Rochester." Maria had to stop and let her breath catch up. Her shoulders heaved at the strenuous task she had just preformed. Those few seconds were enough to send Christine's mind spinning in all directions. Had Tristan discovered Antonia? Had he discovered the dress she had so carefully tried to conceal? Christine let out a frustrated "no". But it seemed that was not the case.
"He asked her to send for a tailor. Lord Hawthorne plans to attend the feast, miss. What shall we do?" She asked in desperation. Christine let go of Maria and went over to her bed to sit down in defeat. She did not trust Tristan enough to reveal everything and ask if she could join him in going to the ball. The blasted thing was merely two days away, how would she explain a new dress in such a short amount of time? A thousand thoughts ran through her mind. New plans were being forged, old ones were forgotten.
"I must still go, it might be the only chance I have to see His Majesty." She murmured to herself.
"If you go, without him, and end up meeting him at the party, then what will you do?"
"I will take responsibility for my actions, Maria." Said Christine through gritted teeth. She had no other choice. She only hoped that she would not stumble upon Tristan in the sea of guests. She had heard of Savoie's estate, it was massive. She was sure that she could keep away from him long enough to get to the king.
"Then all is to go as planned?" Asked Maria. She was worried for her mistress. It could not be healthy to want something so bad that she was willing to put her reputation and well-being on the line for it.
"No. We must wait until his lordship leaves. Signora Coticelli has already acquired a carriage for us with the money I gave her. I shall have to sneak out the back door and ride for the estate when we are sure that my fiancé is far away from the house."
Maria shook her head. It was too close for comfort. Christine was taking a big risk, but she understood why she did it. Maria had been let in on Christine's plan to clear her father's name long ago, back in Cadherra. She understood what drove her to commit such acts. But she could not help but worry for her.
"Very well. I shall seek out Mrs. Coticelli immediately and inform her of the change in plans." Murmured Maria, heading to her room for her coat. Christine, in the meantime, got up and started strolling back and forth in her chamber, feeling the anxiety creep up on her, festering within her like a disease.
"This must work." She murmured to herself when she thought Maria was not within earshot.
February 5th
"Are you sure about this? I thought you said it would be best not to go." Came the questioning voice of Joseph. He seemed to think that he was the voice of reason in all of this.
"You said so yourself yesterday. You could recognize the man Captain Fletcher has been seeing if you were to catch a mere glimpse of him. Going to the winter ball might be the perfect opportunity for you to do so." Said Tristan as a footman dressed him. He had followed lord Athar's advice and decided to go to the ball. Through hard search and some help from the duke, he had found a tailor; a Spaniard who had worked in France the last few years, only to recently arrive in Angloa. The price had been too high to Tristan's liking, but he had finally gotten a new wardrobe. The tailor had taken one look at his torn, military clothes and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had worked non-stop night and day to assemble his first piece of clothing in time for the ball.
"When your clothes were so bulky, you were not able to show your true figure, señor Hawthorne." He said as he helped him get into the doublet.
"As long as I do not have to wear those ridiculous cod-pieces or silly stockings..." Tristan answered harshly. He was not keen on fashion and he preferred comfort over style. But the tailor, Miguel Guzmán, was excellent at what he did. He knew Tristan to be a man of simpler tastes. The tailor had managed to build him a wardrobe of clothes that were in his taste while still being stylish and elegant.
Tristan wore more colors now as well, only that it was very subtle. He wore dark blue, bordering-on-black hoses. The garment was divided; the upper part, the breeches, reached his upper calf. They were slim-fitted instead of the usually poofed style that was otherwise fashionable. If there was something Miguel could not coax him out of, it was the boots. And so, he had sent for one of the best shoemakers in Wessport, to give Tristan newer and better boots. The black leather had been shined to perfection and served to contrast with the dark blue. The outer thighs of the hoses bore a subtle golden lining in the fabric, to further outline Tristan's lean figure and it served to make him look even taller. Miguel wanted to emphasize on the lean, muscular figure that Tristan had been so good at hiding under bulky and robust clothing.
The garments he had worn beforehand had made him almost look like a brute in his size. But now, he wore a fine, white shirt that hugged him in all the right areas. The lace around the handcuffs was minimal, for Tristan disliked such things. The lace for the neck was non-existent. Miguel had, in vain, tried to coax the stubborn lord that lace was worn by everyone. The doublet worn over the shirt was sewn in an intricate pattern that hugged Tristan's V-shaped torso. It transformed his usual bulky physique and presented the lean man underneath it. The material was a rich taffeta, lined with fine cotton. The pattern was in damask and the dark gold swirls contrasted with the royal blue of the doublet. Over was a jerkin that brought the whole outfit together. It was a vest in dark blue, lined in threads of gold just like the breeches. Tristan wore his usual black mask and gloves. He had a sword hanging on his hip with a more elaborate handle. The metal was swirling and twisting to protect the bearer's hand from any direct hits. In his boot, Tristan had a knife, as always. He was paranoid but nonetheless prepared for anything that might come his way.
Joseph wore an elaborate suit as well. With the theme of green and silver, instead of blue and gold. Both men looked stunning in their clothes and Miguel was very pleased when he was done.
"No one will look at that mask of yours now." He exclaimed pleased. "That reminds me. I know a very good craftsman here in the upper circle that could craft you new leather masks."
"The ones I have are comfortable enough." Muttered Tristan.
"Si, but they barely allow view for your eyes." Said the merry voice of the Spaniard. His accent reminded Tristan of Sofia. But his masks were tailored as he liked it, the less his eyes could be seen, the better.
"No." He finally said. Tristan had one of the footmen hand Miguel a purse and then cast a final glance at Joseph. "We are going."
Miguel was shown to his horse while Tristan and Joseph mounted their respective stallions. It was already dark when a footman showed them the way to the Savoie estate. It was a bit outside the city walls and the journey would take at least 30 minutes. Tristan and Joseph wore capes matching their clothing. They wore it as all men did then, tied diagonally across the back. It looked good, but it did little in giving any warmth. Therefore, both of them had thrown on coarser capes, to keep the warmth as they rode through the snowy city and out through the gates. They both wore black wide brimmed hats as well, one end curled up toward the head. White feathers adorned one side of Joseph's hat while Tristan's was kept simple, with no decorations. The strong horses took them in quick canter toward the lights and sound of laughter in the far distance.
As soon as the horses had left, Maria ran to Christine's room where her mistress was waiting together with Antonia.
"Miss, his lordship and sir Joseph have left now." She said, almost giddy. Her nerves did not know what to make of the situation.
"Then we may finally dress you, signorina." Said Antonia as she reached for the finished dress. The process took longer than expected and the hour was growing late when Christine was finally done. Maria and Antonia took a step back to fully admire the young woman.
"You look…" was all Maria could manage. She had no words for how Christine looked. She had never seen anything similar. Maria imagined that if winter was a person, this is what she might look like.
"You look amazing, cara mia." Antonia was more than pleased. Her muse had brought the dress to life, and she knew that every woman in Wessport would now want to know who Christine's seamstress was.
"We have to go now, miss. Before the hour grows too late." Said Maria as she pushed Christine toward the door. The three women carefully sneaked along the corridor. Maria was first, holding a lookout for maids or footmen. They rushed to the back entrance, standing empty, just as they had predicted.
Antonia placed a heavy coat over Christine's shoulders to keep the shuddering woman from freezing.
"Where is the carriage?" Asked Christine as she looked around. As if on demand a small, elegant carriage suddenly appeared behind the corner. It was dragged by four horses, each of them in shades of gray, making them appear like silver horses. The driver was a thin, boyish-looking man dressed in fine clothes and warm coats against the cold weather.
"All clear, Antonia?" Asked the coachman. Christine and Maria were surprised when the voice of a woman emerged from the driver. They understood then that it was a woman dressed as a man.
"Si, si." Urged Antonia. She took one last glance at Christine, pleased with her accomplishments. "Remember girl, you are to tell no one yet who your seamstress is."
"I remember. Thank you, Signora Coticelli." Was all she could say. The young woman rushed across the yard toward the black carriage and promptly jumped into it. Before Maria had even managed to close the door behind her mistress, the carriage was already on its way. Christine knew there was no turning back now, she had to see this through. The worry in her stomach ate away at her the closer they got to Savoie's estate.
Note: If you liked it, please feel free to leave a review, it is very much appreciated. I would also like to point out that if you see any faults, grammatical or historical, please point them out. I am not a historian and I am sure that some minor detail might escape me. Thanks again. Cheers!
