Disclaimer: Don't own history, don't own the Renaissance, just kinda wished I'd lived back then. (Or that we'd at least kept some of the fashions, esp. the ones those of the ladies!) Anywho…
Chapter Nine -Enter the Villain
It had been a while since Erik, the Count d'Auberie, had made an appearance at the refined English court of Henry the Eighth, but his presence would have created a stir there no matter how long it had been since his last visit. Not many noblemen walked about in broad daylight wearing enigmatic, concealing masks that hinted at either dark secrets or extreme eccentricities. And it was thus that he made his way to the throne room of Windsor Castle without giving a second thought, or reaction, to the stares that he was receiving, or the whispers that followed in his wake.
Jean-Pierre cast a glance at the room, and the people surrounding them, with a wary eye. He did not much enjoy venturing into the English circles, as they held a much more blunt, and almost harsh, way of dealing with people who happened to be 'different'. D'Auberie stilled him with a smooth, barely-noticeable gesture of one hand, murmuring in a low voice as they walked down the people-lined corridor that led into the throne room, "Softly now, M. Colbert – softly. They won't jump us."
"Yet." Jean-Pierre muttered, still balefully eyeing the people around them. Then, turning to the tall, masked man who stood beside him, "Milord, are you certain that we are not simply wasting our time here today? Perchance the King will not—"
"Henry, refuse a more than generous offer from one of King François's favorite comrades?" The Count made a dismissive sound, a wry expression on the visible parts of his face, and shook his head. "No, I should think not, my dear Jean-Pierre. Henry will leap at the chance to further enrich himself…and besides, I somehow do not get the sense that he will entirely miss the particular piece that we are here for. You see."
And then, lifting one long, well-developed arm, he pointed across the room to a wall almost entirely overshadowed by the musicians' gallery—
Underneath which hung the second portrait.
The Count grinned in open exultation, feeling his spirits soar with pride for the incredible talents of the young artist who had unraveled – within a day – the secret behind the first portrait in the collection. Jean-Pierre merely looked more nervous. But the Count ignored his friend and servant's premonitions; if the butler was the voice of reason in all their undertakings, it was left to him to be the one who acted on his impulses and intuitions. And more often than not, impulses and intuitions had served him well.
It wouldn't be hard to purchase the portrait from Henry. With as much trouble as he was already going through with his increasingly unfavorable wife, Catherine of Aragon, the English king wouldn't give a second thought to letting something so simple as a mere painting. Especially so if it was one that hadn't even been done by an English artist. It would be almost insanely easy.
Or so he thought until he caught sight of yet another visiting French nobleman – Armand de Mercier.
* * *
The houses of the Marquis de Mercier and the Count d'Auberie had never been quite amicable: the relationship between the two noblemen could be described as a cool, detached, and ultimately aloof one at best. And although no one knew quite what the first and foremost reason for this was, several had been put forward.
Armand de Mercier was quite a bit younger than the Count; twenty years at least stood between the two of them. He was the holder of an estate not nearly as large nor wealthy or beautiful as that which belonged to d'Auberie, yet he was quite a powerful and charismatic force in the French nobility. His character, however, was more well known than anything else about him. When one was introduced to him, one generally came away with the feeling that they had just spoken to some sort of reptile that had happened to have been encased in a human form.
The way that he smiled when spoken to – in a secretive, give-nothing, almost mocking way that seemed condescending, cold, and cruel – may have been part of this; it also may have stemmed from the way that his dark, entrancing eyes glittered at times. It may have been the way he spoke: in a cool, smooth, nearly sibilant voice that was all grace, poise, and refinement.
But whatever the reason, people generally tended to watch their step around them. Anyone who met him either hated him, or loved him – and those who hated him loved the Count d'Auberie; those who loved him vastly hated the Count.
De Mercier was not an unattractive young man. He was actually rather handsome, or so it was generally thought: blessed with high, delicate, pale features especially favored in the French nobility, dark, wavy hair, and an elegant stature and build, he was the epitome of the typical rich, titled youth of that age. He was gifted in all the areas that were cherished in the Renaissance man.
In short, he was the Count's exact match, only twenty years younger.
And they were, for all intents and purposes, the worst of enemies.
* * *
The very next morning, the Count found himself awakened by a knock on the door of his bedchamber. Dragging himself out of his unconsciousness, he sat halfway up, onto his elbows, automatically reaching with one hand over to the table that stood by his bed, to take his mask and place it on over his face. It was impossible to sleep with the blasted porcelain thing on; he might either break it, or find breathing impossible when wearing it in his sleep.
Only after he had tied its laces behind his head did he finally summon the willpower to growl his permission for whomever it was that stood outside to enter. It was Jean-Pierre, who was already dressed for the day, and seemed as if he had been up for quite a long while. As he probably has been, d'Auberie thought to himself irritably. Having seen that his handsome young archenemy was also present at the court of Henry VIII hadn't done much to improve his temper.
Jean-Pierre bowed a bit and then stood straight.
"Good morning, my lord."
" 'Morning, Jean-Pierre," rumbled the groggy Count in reply. Mornings were not his favorite time of day. He ran an idle hand through his thick black hair, causing it to fall forward onto his forehead, and prompted, "Is there something you needed?"
M. Colbert paused a moment, seeming to hesitate. Then, finally, with an exceedingly careful note in his voice, "Milord, your offer to purchase the ballroom portrait has been accepted – however…" And he trailed off.
The Count rolled his eyes, already guessing what was toward.
"However…?"
"However, the Marquis de Mercier has also lately bespoken an interest in its purchase; in order to remedy the situation, he has extended an invitation for you to meet him in the gymnasium this morning, so that you may discuss it with him."
The Count made a sound of extreme irritation and flopped back onto his mountains of pillows, one hand moving to his face so that he could rub his eyes tiredly with it. All this, and at only a few hours into the early morning!
That stupid boy – that preposterous, assuming fop! Fop, fop, FOP!
At this, he lifted his hand enough to peer across the room at his butler, and questioned, "Did he stipulate any specific time?"
Indeed, the Marquis de Mercier had, and so the Count d'Auberie found himself compelled to forget all thought of resting after his long journey from the mountainous region of France where he made his home, and prepare to go meet his worst enemy down in the gymnasium of Windsor Castle.
* * *
The Count and his servant arrived just five minutes after the agreed time of meeting, the nobleman having no wish to do exactly as his longtime nemesis wished for him to do. The Marquis de Mercier was already there, with his attendants and usual cronies: suited up for fencing on the dueling floor. A broad, sparkling, and very charming white smile split his handsome young face as he took note of the Count's approach, and he stepped forward, enthusiastically.
"Well met, Monseigneur le Comte!" he greeted in French, as the other occupants of the room halted in their activities to witness the entrance of the famed nobleman who wore the mask. "I am so glad that you have been able to meet me here this morning! I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you – surely, I had no wish to put you out of your convenience or comfort."
The Count came to a stop about three feet off from him, not even glancing at Armand de Mercier's extended hand: a grave slight, in the eyes of the nobility present, both English and French – and whatever else.
"Le Marquis de Mercier," he commented, in a carefully controlled, although falsely pleasant tone: his masked face hiding all emotion whatsoever. "What an unpleasant surprise!"
Armand de Mercier's grin became all the more broad, and he replied, with the same façade of friendship and pleasantry, "Well, old man, I hear that you've expressed an interest in the old painting that hangs in the ballroom – quite an interesting piece, isn't it? And what instigated this desire of yours to have it? Not getting enough action in that old rustic bell tower of yours – or is it just old age?"
D'Auberie laughed: shortly and coldly, grinning just as brightly.
"That is none of your concern whatsoever, you foppish boy."
From the appearance of this conversation, anyone who didn't speak French would have thought that this was a meeting of two very old and dear friends…when in reality, nothing could be further from the truth.
Armand laughed as well and shook his head, dark eyes sparkling with mirth – mirth which concealed the underlying dangerous hardening of their expression.
"Well!" he laughed again. "I can see that the distantness of your lifestyle hasn't served to dull your wit, milord! But come now," More seriously. "I would very much like to have that painting myself – for reasons of my own," he added, with dark elusiveness, eyeing the Count, "So what I propose is simple: a duel, for the ownership of the painting. Whomever wins will go through with the petition to Henri in order to obtain it. Are you up to that…or would you rather not risk the challenge?"
The Count's smile became quite dazzling – but his yellow eyes took on a quite dangerous glint behind his black porcelain mask.
"Perhaps…and is that the best you can do?"
Before anyone could react to this gratuitous insult, the two men repaired to opposite ends of the dueling floor, their comrades going along with them. D'Auberie suited up for the bout silently, grimly lacing the heavily-padded white chest guard with an extremely foreboding air hanging about him, reflected in the give-nothing set of his mouth and the flat expression in his eyes. Jean-Pierre dashed to assist him, incredibly alarmed, and spoke as his employer readied himself for the duel.
"My lord! My lord, this is madness! Ignore the boy – let us leave; there is no point in staying here to respond to his challenge! Please, milord!"
D'Auberie turned on him, almost abruptly, and faced him squarely, eyes snapping yellow sparks. "No!" he growled. "No. We are staying. I will not be dissuaded. We are staying – and if you have any further objections on the matter, I suggest that you take yourself elsewhere. Now will you, or do I have your support?"
M. Colbert averted his eyes and looked down, shaking his head with a tired sigh. The Count was like any other nobleman – possessed of an insane sense of honour.
And when he'd set his mind to something, nothing would stop him.
"You know you have my loyalty, milord."
The Count did not even look at him.
"Good. Now help me suit up."
His yellow eyes narrowed.
"I've a mind to teach this boy a lesson."
* * *
All the occupants of the dueling floor stepped off and to the sides as the two French noblemen – the Marquis de Mercier and the Count d'Auberie – stepped onto it, rapiers loosely held in their hands, facing each other in intense concentration. Their eyes, expressions, and carriage showed what was going on inside both of them.
A preparation for battle.
De Mercier flashed the Count a cocky, taunting little smile as they assumed the initial dueling positions opposite from one another.
"So, old man, you've chosen to hazard the challenge? Are you certain that you're ready for me?"
The Count merely sent him a cool smile back in reply to these words, testing out his position on the floor, and then raising the blade of his weapon to touch that of the Marquis. Then, he said, calmly, "I think the question is, boy, do you know what you've gotten yourself into?"
And with that, they were given the cue to begin – and immediately, the duel commenced. De Mercier thrust his blade forward, stabbing it towards d'Auberie, who evaded it with a lightning-quick dodge to the side. Following up on his advantage, gained as the Marquis moved forward after his initial lunge, he smacked the other blade aside, slashing quickly down with his own. The two rapiers met with a terrific, ringing clash, sparks almost flying, and then the duel really became serious.
The two participants fought across the floor, back and forth, from one side to the other, until they actually came off of it and began dueling into the room, onlookers scattering to preserve their own safety.
By then it was obvious: this was no mere friendly bout of dueling.
This was a deadly game between two very formidable enemies.
On and on the duel raged, taking the Count and the Marquis out of the gymnasium entirely and into the hallway beyond, where the Marquis's blade slashed into a tapestry on the wall, bringing it crashing down almost on top of the Count, who quickly avoided it by whirling to one side, out of his opponent's reach. The people who were standing in the corridor were frozen for one split second in a mixture of horror and awe as they witnessed this intense battle, and then – like the occupants of the gymnasium – forced to flee. The shrieks of a few startled ladies filled the air, along with the continued clashing of the two noblemen's swords.
Suddenly, they locked swords and stood still for a moment, both struggling to free themselves from the other's death-lock on their blades, glaring into one another's eyes. Finally, the Marquis rasped, his cocky twist of the lips never leaving his face, "Well – are you ready to secede yet…old man?"
The Count returned the expression, although his jaw was beginning to tremble as he clenched it with the effort he was exerting. Both his and the Marquis's fencing attire had been torn in several places, and both of their faces, neck, and chests were bathed in sweat: muscles tensed and hard underneath their clothing, eyes alight with the fire of pure hatred. So Armand thought he was going to win, did he?
"Didn't you know…" he rasped back, rallying his strength for one final assault. "That the house of d'Auberie never secedes?"
"All right then," was the still defiant reply. "Then let's set a standard for defeat – the first sword to draw blood wins."
"Fine by me."
And then the Count pulled back on his sword, disengaging it from the lock, which made the Marquis fall forward. He would have fallen directly on his face into the dusty carpet had he not been possessed of a set of very good reflexes. Still, that was not enough to gain him the upper hand again – the Count followed through on his attack, his yellow eyes gleaming almost viciously, forcing the younger man down the corridor and to a window that opened out onto a portico with stairs leading down onto a lawn only a few feet below.
One furious slash of the Count's sword sent de Mercier's own weapon flying onto the marble floor of the courtyard below, and then the young marquis himself was shoved – roughly and inescapably – out of the window.
De Mercier fell to the ground and went rolling down the stairs, but the Count hadn't finished with him yet. Leaping out after him without a single moment's pause, he was on the ground of the courtyard almost before de Mercier had gathered his wits enough to propel himself to his feet and go after his sword again.
The Count attacked again, this time driving the Marquis into a corner, with his back against the stone wall; and there, he stopped, holding his sword out straight, leveled at his opponent's throat, breathing hard, with sweat rolling down the sides of his face underneath his mask, yellow eyes glaring.
He said only two words.
"You lose."
And de Mercier put one hand up to his left shoulder, and then pulled his fingers away, a numb expression on his aesthetic young face…to see blood staining the tips of those fingers. All was silent in the courtyard for one long, tense moment, as everyone present held his or her breath and waited to see what the Marquis de Mercier would now do. The Count remained exactly as he was, unmoving as a statue, his eyes never leaving his young archenemy, who stared at his hand for a moment longer, and then began to laugh softly, under his breath, shaking his head ruefully.
"Well, whoever said that the world could be predictable was very wrong – very dead earnest wrong!"
Then he looked up, to the Count, and grinned, still laughing and shaking his head.
"Good show, old man. You have me – I secede. This time, at least."
And he bowed deeply, offering his sword hilt to the Count, who finally lowered his own weapon, but did not even make a move to acknowledge the gesture of surrender.
All he did was make a single last comment: coldly.
"You should not think there will be a next time, monsieur."
Then, he turned his back on the Marquis, and life suddenly surged back into the silent courtyard, as people began to talk animatedly about what had just occurred, while the Count handed his rapier to a servant who stood nearby, then walked up the stairs. His servant waited for him by the door, an incredibly tense, drawn expression on his genteel face, and the Count paused a moment before him.
"We depart, M. Colbert."
* * *
At the port of Dover, the Count d'Auberie's ship – the Odyssey – was moored: a veritable giant among the many other vessels that lay in wait there. Late one night in mid-spring, the nobleman himself arrived by carriage, accompanied by his most trusted manservant. However, he did not board the ship. As the things from the carriage were being brought aboard, d'Auberie pulled M. Colbert aside.
"Jean-Pierre, would you have any issues with making the journey across the Channel without me?" he asked, quickly and to the point, his tone earnest and quite grave. The butler cocked an eyebrow at this, but did not seem otherwise surprised.
"If it is your wish, monseigneur…"
"It is," the Count assured him. Just then, there was the sound of approaching hoof beats and rolling carriage wheels, coming nearer through the darkness, and he turned briefly away, glancing towards the source of the noise, and when he turned back, he spoke with an even more urgent tone.
"Monsieur, I have been given reason to believe that someone has plans for something to go wrong in the transportation of the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait tonight. I want you to return on the Odyssey, and not give anyone a word about where I am – don't let on that I am not with you. I'll take a different ship and arrive at a different port, with the painting. Can you do this?"
M. Colbert seemed almost affronted that the Count should have to ask.
"Of course, milord! But how should I set about finding you again once we have put in to port again?"
The Count moved away, resting his hand on his servant and friend's shoulder for one moment, as he replied, voice drifting back through the growing darkness, "Do not worry about that, my friend – do not worry…"
* * *
Two weeks later, somewhere in the midst of a French port, two shifty-eyed, rough-looking men came at summons to a dingy, low-lit flat. As soon as the door had been closed behind them, the superior of the two – a character who could have easily passed as some sort of pirate or other rogue – removed the hood of his cloak and spoke to the slender, elegant figure that was awaiting them.
"M'lord, the Count d'Auberie's Odyssey has put into port."
A pause.
"And the painting wasn't anywhere on't."
The figure moved slightly, and a cold, cruel chuckle issued out of the darkness.
"I thought as much. You may proceed with the next step of the plan then…"
* * *
And somewhere else in that same port, a tall, cloaked and hooded figure – disguised quite amply in indistinguishable brown broadcloth: its face, however, hidden by a startling black mask, yellow eyes glittering from within it – left the ship upon which he had traveled from the English shore. Over his shoulder was slung a simple, worn pack, which looked to be somewhat heavy, from the way his posture was stooped.
After glancing briefly about himself then, the Count d'Auberie set off down the dusty, deserted street: finally, truly on his way home, at last.
* * *
But, just when all seemed lost, a ray of hope appeared: in the form of a prince from a neighboring kingdom. Young Prince Skye stepped forward, boldly, and said to the distraught King and Queen, 'I will go after the marauding goblins, and if I must travel from one end of this world to the other, and even beyond it, I will return her to you. And if I cannot find her, I will not return to this place…'
And then, forsaking his crown, his home, and even his own safety, the Prince courageously went forth to find the abducted infant princess. The goblins left hardly any traces of their passing, but Prince Skye sought them out, and followed their trail, relentlessly continuing his search for the princess.
His quest soon took him far, far away from his home…
"May I interrupt?"
Clarice started, surprised by the sudden question: put to her by a gentle, masculine voice nearby, almost in her ear. Quickly, she set aside her quill pen and book, looking up and over her shoulder. There, she saw the owner of the voice, who had just entered the library that she had selected to be her writing location. It was, of course, the Count d'Auberie: tall, enigmatic, charming, and finely-attired as ever, grinning at her from behind the mask that he wore.
"Milord! You've returned!" she said, standing up and turning towards him: a smile of her own lighting her green eyes beautifully and curving her full, dark red lips. She came around the settee that she had been seated on and met him halfway across the distance that had been between them, he taking her hand and bowing over it, briefly brushing its back with his lips, as she curtsied deeply. When they straightened, he stood back and inclined his head in reply to her words before speaking.
"I have, mademoiselle – and good evening to you, as well."
Clarice lowered her head, inclining her head as he had in her own reply to this, and then the Count, offering her his hand, gallantly escorted her back to her seat, taking his place across from her in a chair that had been placed nearby. Delicately perching herself on the edge of the settee: voluminous silken skirts spread out about her, with her back ramrod straight and hands folded demurely in her lap, Clarice averted her eyes from him, pondering briefly if she should plunge right into asking him if her answer to the first painting's mystery had been correct.
"I hope…your visit to England was…rewarding, milord?"
She added the question mark in her tone after hastily making the decision to do so, even though it seemed a bit impulsive on her part.
The Count, however, spared her from worrying about how to ask the question that she was dying to know the answer of. As if he had read her mind – which he seemed to have a knack for doing anyway – he then informed her, "Yes, it was indeed, milady. Your answer to the first puzzle was absolutely correct, for which I applaud you most enthusiastically."
Clarice felt herself flush with pleasure and turned her head aside, studying her hands as they lay in her lap: sensing the Count's gaze on her profile.
Then, "I would have informed you of this earlier, but I must plead the excuse of having arrived here late last night, and then slept all this day. I returned separately from my traveling companion, M. Colbert, who has not yet returned, but I have brought the second painting with me."
Clarice's large, entrancing green eyes brightened with excitement, and she leaned forward, looking as if she was brimming with questions.
The Count smiled, pleased by her reaction, and continued, "You will find this one even more to your liking, I think; I will be much interested in being an actual witness to your mystery-solving this time, milady – if you will allow such a thing."
Clarice immediately replied that he must do as he wished, and that she would be very honoured to have him there with her. Their discussion trailed off after that, as she looked back down to her writing and he simply gazed at her with his gentle eyes.
Then, softly, he asked, "You have been well, I trust, milady?"
Looking up, she nodded quickly, replying, "Of course, my lord." She hesitated. "And…and you?"
He smiled at her.
"I am very well, thank you, milady."
The silence stepped in between them again, and they sat without moving or speaking: the wordlessness of the moment was sweet, and not at all oppressive. It seemed to be right – the two of them, simply sitting together in the quiet. Clarice found her mind drifting to memories of the last two months, in which his absence had taken place.
Everyone in the chateau was very kind and polite to her, and she was growing ever fonder of Mme. Colbert and her near associates; however, it was only in the Count's return that she found her true contentment.
Perhaps it was because he was the one who had first invited her to come to the place – he was her first friend there, when it came down to just that. Perhaps it was…perhaps it was something else entirely.
Funny thought.
"A question of you, if I may, mademoiselle."
The sound of the Count's gentle, almost tender voice brought her back to reality without harshness, and she turned her gaze upon him again, to find him looking at her with a peculiar, almost bittersweet expression in his yellow eyes.
Strange – now…now that she was beginning to know him, she could almost bring herself to forget his terrible disfigurement entirely. Although she did not judge his character upon his appearance, she could not drive the memory of that first terrible moment of their meeting at midnight from her mind, and the remembrance of his unmasked face had haunted her ever since.
But now…now…things seemed different. His eyes no longer seemed so disturbing as the burning yellow that she had first thought them – now they seemed more golden, like the light of the glorious morning sun in the sky…
"Any question, milord."
His eyes gazed deeply into hers.
"How old are you, mademoiselle?"
This puzzled her.
"Sixteen, my lord…I'll be seventeen in August."
With an air of acknowledgement of her answer, he sat back in his chair, one arm draped over its curving back, expression now becoming thoughtful. Suddenly then, he commented, "And you may as well ask the question that I know you're dying to know."
The unexpectedness of the previous moment forgotten, Clarice felt a grin split her face, and she asked him, "How old are you, Monseigneur le Comte?"
"Would you believe me if I told you I was over one thousand years of age?"
There was a vast amount of both mischief in his eyes, dismissing any thought of this being really true, and then he started to chuckle, which made her laugh; then, when the laughter had stopped a moment later, he then said, more seriously, "Well, I certainly feel like I'm that age – believe that, at least. One thousand, going on forty-three."
Clarice eyed him then, speculatively. He looked much younger than forty-two; with his thick, jet-black hair and youthful manner, complexion, voice, and bearing, no one would think that he was over twenty-six. Forty-two.
Who would have guessed?
Well.
The Count then leaned forward, gesturing to her book.
"Your story?"
She blushed again, remembering the night in the shop, when he had first seen the illustrations for the particular tale in question. Then she nodded.
"Yes."
"A fairy tale?"
For some reason, she felt impelled, by his manner, to smile.
"Yes, milord."
They gazed at each other for a moment.
"Perhaps sometime you would let me read it?"
"But of course."
* * *
A/N: So now we have a villain and some rather interesting developments, including a plot, some more Clarice/Count action…but where is this heading? Now we know just how far apart they are (not only in station but in age), but things like age were overlooked a lot in the Renaissance…however, can the Count overlook it? What will happen next, as the mystery further progresses…? New chapters soon. Ta-ta for now though! Fair thee well until we next meet, good friends!
