A/N:  Jeeeeeez.  Okay, I hope that you all can forgive me for this latest delay, but I think by the time you've finished reading this chapter, you'll understand why.  In short, it took an immense amount of research (at least, immense when compared to the amount that I did for my other stories) to complete this chapter.  And I realize that my German and Italian may be a bit off, but please blame that on the translation site I use, and not me.  I try my best. Furthermore, see the chapter title?  Don't try killing me for this latest development in the story line.  Nothing's falling apart yet, but I'm not going to let these two have it easy. Comments to specific things:  starting with the Count's age.  Well, there is a definite reason why he has to be so much older, which will be brought out more and more as we go on.  Trust me…  The Count's 'species', if you will: faery?  Hmm.  That might have been an interesting thought.  I can tell you right now that he has a lot of secrets, but being faery isn't one of them.  And cameos for certain characters from the past…well, I'm not sure if I can work that in to the story, but I came up with this little infomercial, if you will, featuring a couple of them… Disclaimer:  Blah blah blah, don't own history, own the Count and Clarice and whoever else isn't real, blah blah blah, yadda yadda, and now this announcement from your friendly Travelers of Enchantment protagonists! (Enter Gavin, Arin, Orlando, and Orandor) Gavin: (bright, winning salesman grin)  And a very good afternoon to you, ladies and gentlemen!  I hope you've been enjoying your day so far, and would like to give a shout out to all my friends— Kates: Hurry it up.  We've got a two-minute slot scheduled, remember?  Try to keep it concise, for the love of Pete! Gavin: Erm.  Uh…oh yes.  Thank you for taking your time away from our normal broadcast.  Are you looking for something special to give to your truly special Valentine?  Something a little different from the normal chocolate-and-paper-cards deal? Orlando: (flashes an even more brilliant, winning grin.  Cue the swoons, people) Well, look no further, because we have the perfect Valentine's Day gift for you! Arin and Orandor (hold up a pale purple box and announce): Enchanted roses! Orlando: They're as beautiful as anybody could want! Gavin: They're so fragrant, they'll cure anybody's gym bag of that nasty dirty-sock smell!  (Orlando and Arin shoot death-ray glares at him)  Eep! Orandor: They can cover up your run-down old castle!  *sotto voice*  Not like we have any of those around here, but that's not the point… Arin: They'll perk up that listless garden… Orlando: And they grow at hyperspeed!  (turns to Arin, looking disgusted) Hyperspeed?  Who wrote this script? Arin (shrugs): Haven't the faintest idea.  Gavin: And if you call right now, in the next ten minutes, you can get a second pack absolutely free, along with a copy of the first printed edition of The Faery Princesses' Diaries! (Suddenly, Elladine and Arielle run on and tackle him, just as Arin and Orlando are looking like they might do so themselves) Elladine: So it WAS you!  You unbelievable slimy son of a slime-monster! Arielle: I'll teach you to read my diary!  (Five minutes pass in which Kates tries to get rid of the migraine that Gavin has caused, and also in which Gavin gets chased around the block by a very angry pair of faery princesses) Orandor (tentatively, once the ruckus has settled down) So waste no more time searching – buy the object of your affection some real roses! Gavin (pops his head back in around the corner of the wall): Call 1-800-I-LUV-GAVIN or e-mail me at gavinfan@ea--

Orandor:  NO!  NOT AGAIN! 

(And then Arin and Orlando get in on the action, and Gavin is successfully exiled from the computer room)

Kates:  Okaaaaaay…everybody ready for the story now?  Okaaay.  That's nice.  Stories are nice…very nice…could somebody please get me a Tylenol, or any other strong painkiller?  I'd appreciate that, thank you.  'Kay.  Story.

   Chapter Ten  -

Enter the Love Interest

The night of June 15th, 1530, found the Odyssey once more on the sea: this time, it was headed not for England, but for the coast of Italy – specifically, the port of Genoa.  Scarcely even two weeks after Clarice had been given the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait, she had deciphered its mystery.  After viewing the portrait – which had been a detailed depiction of the Roman mythological god, Cupid, and his lovely bride, Psyche, together in a many-windowed room that looked out onto a bright, sprawling city – she had made her decision on where the third piece of the puzzle was located. 

It was very simple, really.

Records of Milan's first known inhabitants dated back to the Bronze Age: the Gaul people had settled there in the 4th century B.C.  After them, it had been conquered by the Romans, who made Milan into an autonomous province under the Roman control.  The geographical position of the city, at the center of the Padana Plain, made it a perfect stopping place for merchants and travelers en-route to the north of the Italian Peninsula.  It also became an important military defense against the ancient barbarians of northern Europe and was soon the most powerful city in Europe, after Rome. 

Featured in the painting were several clues that alluded to this – the use of Roman mythology and Latin phrases skillfully interwoven into the picture, the wine in the god and goddess's hands: as the regions surrounding Milan were known for it, the mountains and city in the background.  All these and more pointed almost quite clearly to Milan.

And so to Milan they went.

During her time studying the portrait, Clarice had often enjoyed her enigmatic employer's company.  And as mysterious and seemingly unreachable as he seemed like to be, she soon found that he was incredibly easy to talk to.  Hours and hours had passed them by, in which they had talked about many, many things: about their interests, about society, current issues, and simply life in general. 

Sometimes it took years for two people to get to truly know one another.

And sometimes it took just days.

*                       *                       *

It was very quiet out at sea, as the hour of midnight slowly slipped into being.  The waters were calm and dark, the moon's pale, gentle rays sparkling on their peaked surfaces, as the ship's crew took their watches, everyone else sleeping.

Almost everyone else.

The Count didn't exactly think of himself as an insomniac, but truth to be told, he didn't sleep through the night very often.  He simply found it more to his liking to be awake at times, rather than attempting to sleep when such a thing was evading him.  And this night, he actually had a reason to be awake. 

Very soon, they would reach Genoa – by morning, if not earlier, and there, yet another piece to the artistic puzzle awaited them.  He had a feeling that danger awaited them there as well: danger, if not more.  There was something odd going on, he had long sensed.  Rumors whispered at court and in various other places had begun to circulate, and whereas he normally ignored such things…

Clarice.

He stepped to the door that connected his cabin to the one next to it, and gently turned the knob, pushing it open so that he could look into the room beyond.  A serene void of many velvety shades of blue greeted him, in the midst of which was a window, its hinged panes pushed wide open to emit the gentle flow of the fresh sea breeze.  And just underneath that window, curled up in the mound of silken pillows that had been left on the window seat, was a dreaming Clarice. 

The Count felt a soft, indulgent smile curve his lips a bit and he crossed the room, silently, so as not to wake her, coming to stand looking down on her with a gaze so unreadable that even he didn't really know the emotions behind.  Gently, he reached out one hand and brushed a few errant strands of her ebony-black hair off of her face, revealing her pale, soft profile to the moon's doting glow. 

He wondered what she was dreaming about. 

She looked hardly any different now, in her sleep, than she did in the daytime: her lips were still curved by her perpetual, slight little smile, and she seemed both serene and confident, resting assured in the events of her life.  He almost wondered if she had thought, in her last moments before falling into the deepest slumber, of the time they had spent together that afternoon, playing chess – which he had been teaching her – and looking out at the cerulean expanse of ocean that surrounded them in every which direction, trying to catch a glimpse of its underwater inhabitants.

The memories of that – of sunshine, salt spray, laughter, and adventurous expeditions throughout the Odyssey's interior – were certainly cause enough for smiling.  And really, when it came down to that…his life had been filled with more laughter, more smiles and genuine happiness, since she had come into it than ever before. 

Why this was so, he had no idea. 

Before, he had led a passive existence: neither overwhelmingly joyous at anything, but not terribly unhappy either.  And now – now he had this teenage girl, this friend, this…whatever else she was to him, and everything seemed somehow better.  They had become so close, such good friends…but why?  They were undoubtedly alike in many, many ways, but the world would say there shouldn't be a reason why two people of such different backgrounds and stations in life – and such varying ages! – should be close comrades.  Did he care?  Could he care?

She had never known her father.

And he had never had a daughter.

There's for your compunctions about us! he thought, rebelliously, at the world and its opinions on everything and anything, and then he stared out the window, eyes dark and brooding behind his mask, snapping in irritation.

The best thing to do at that moment was, he then decided, to stop thinking about such irritating matters.  He turned his gaze back to Clarice's sleeping figure again and let it fix itself upon her for a moment. 

She needed to be in bed. 

Falling asleep beside an open window with the melody of the sea as a lullaby, while the moon and stars sent their gentle light down upon her, was a romantic enough notion, but sometimes notions had best be ignored and common sense heeded. 

So he swiftly but silently reached down and eased his arms underneath and anyway about her, lifting her up off of the window seat and gathering her into his embrace.  Clarice stirred only slightly in her sleep, and he paused: not wanting for her to wake up and find that him holding her. 

As he moved across the room towards the lavish four-poster bed that had been designated as hers for the voyage, he found himself noting the similarities of this situation to a few others from the past…

"I remember the first time I held you like this," he said: his voice barely a whisper, speaking to her sleeping form as if she was really listening. "I saw you ride up to the castle on your horse – Archimedes, I think you told me was his name – and something was wrong…I could see it.  And then I came around the side of the kitchen wing just in time to see you have our conversation with Mme. Colbert, and faint.  That was the first time I held you.  I will never forget it."

He paused then, looking at her still face, and was suddenly reminded of the harsh, unfeeling reality that would ever lie between them – in the cold, hard form of the mask that he wore.  Turning around slightly, he saw a reflection of himself in the mirror that was on the room's vanity table: the picture of a tall, thin man with a face obscured by a black porcelain mask, holding a sleeping beauty in his arms. 

There had been a second time that he had done this…

It was night then, he remembered, as he went to the side of the bed and laid Clarice onto it, smoothing the covers over her and then briefly running a fingertip along the curve of her cheek.  It was night, and you had been sick: worn out and ill with exhaustion.  I stayed with you all during that time, during the deepest watches of the night…and then you woke up, and you were disoriented and frightened: alone in a dark place that you had never seen before…

He didn't blame her for her reaction to finding him, alone, in his room: unmasked.  How could he, when he had done the exact same thing when the bandages had come off?  It was impossible not to recoil with horror when confronted with a face like his, something that seemed to have come out of the most horrible nightmares. 

And all this because of one blinding instant – a single agonizing moment, in which everything he had known and loved had been taken from him.

I'm sorry for this, sweet one, he thought, sitting down gently on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke her silky black curls away from her face once more, gazing into her face.  I'm sorry that I can't be normal for you, and for anything else that might happen in the future…

I'm sorry.

And then he stood up and left the room without a second glance, returning to his own chamber and closing the door that separated the two rooms.  Once there, he went in silence to his own bed, sitting down in its edge and putting his face into his hands, shoulders and back slumping in utter weariness. 

Closing his eyes, he tried to think – tried to plan out his next movements in the quest, to decide what arrangement were his more important priorities, to keep himself from thinking about nothing but the memories that were now torturing him with their refusal to leave!

Finally, he lifted his head and looked out the nearby window, his yellow eyes firm and unwavering with one resolution.

No matter what it cost him, he would keep Clarice safe.

No matter what.

*                       *                       *

"Good morning, beautiful world!  The sun and sky rain joyful praises of your fairness, and all nature sings of one place – Italy!"

Clarice flung her arms wide, turning her face up to the sky so that the bright, warm rays of the sun that she had just so poetically praised could rain down on her skin.  She took another step forward, so that her companion – a handmaid, Chlöe – could come out onto the sunlit terrace with her. 

The Count and his party were at last in the famed land of the magnificent Romans of old, and such a thing was indeed cause for celebration, especially after a week or more of traveling both by land and by sea to the ancient and beautiful city of Milan.  And now, as Clarice and her companion were part of the fabulously wealthy and well-known Count d'Auberie's retinue, they now found themselves as residents – for a time – at the Sforzesco Castle. 

The Sforzo family had long been in power over Milan, and they had made much success in that undertaking: the people actually seemed to like them, at least more so than their predecessors, the Visconti signoria, and the court at the castle itself was known, in the past and the present, as one of the richest in Renaissance Europe.  Hundreds of people, nobility of all varieties, flocked to it with a voraciousness that had caused Milan to be known for the epicenter of activity that it was.

Clarice could hardly wait to begin really enjoying her stay there.

Leaning over the edge of the terrace, she gazed at her surroundings.  In every which direction, she could see the sprawling grounds of the castle, filled with courtiers and every sort of nobility that could be imagined.  There were so many things to do – so many places to go, and people to meet!  For the first time in her life, Clarice found that she was standing directly in the middle of the fulfillment of all her dreams.  Here was excitement, intrigue, beauty, amusement, wit, and pleasure – and more.

She had entered a whole new world.

Just then, she heard a step on the floor behind her and turned around.  "I hope I find you well this morning, milady?" a familiar male voice asked, and she smiled brightly, automatically curtseying with an inherent grace and ease as she felt her hand taken and lightly kissed.  When she looked up, her green eyes were sparkling.

"You should not think that I would be otherwise, milord!" she replied, and the Count grinned before he extended his arm to her, crooking it slightly.

"Then perhaps you would not be averse to making a round with me, on this most beautiful of mornings?"

Clarice inclined her head, sinking down in a small, almost coquettish curtsey once more, as the ethereal, transparent pastel silken petals that had been placed in her hair that day fluttered like the wings of butterflies against its ebony sleekness.

"I am honoured that Your Grace should ask me to do so."

And with that, she wound her arm about his and he gallantly escorted her down the terrace steps and onto the sunlit lawn below, Chlöe following respectfully behind.  The small party of three traveled through the gardens, meandering without a care in the world, with the Count introducing his young companion to quite a few of the nobles that he knew there.  Clarice soon found herself in conversation, on several occasions, with people of all ranks, appearances, and nationalities: Spaniards, Danes, Englishmen, Welsh, Italians, and more.  By the time half an hour had gone by, she felt her head spinning with titles, polite questions and replies, and, first and foremost, the startling realization that she – an orphaned, low-ranking child – had been dropped into the midst of all this wealth, power, and opulence!

But the most surprising experience was yet to come.

The Count had briefly left Clarice and her maid in a shaded, cool alcove: a wooden dome grown over with ivy, blooming orange tree topiaries, and other sorts of fragrant and beautiful greenery, to fetch them all some refreshment, as the weather was growing rather warm at the onset of noon.  Within moments he returned, and Clarice was just taking the drink that he had handed to her from him when they were suddenly hailed by a voice.  Clarice looked up and saw that someone – a man – was standing behind the Count, who likewise reacted to the voice and turned.

"Well now, Signor Erik!" greeted the voice: warm, friendly, boyish, speaking volumes of laughter and smiles and an all-around good nature. "So: this is your young companion – what would you, hiding her away from all those who desire to meet her, and for such a long time?"

The Count smiled, in turn, and clasped hands familiarly with the newcomer: a tall, slender, very attractive young man who appeared to be a member of the Italian court.  His hair was dark – though not so dark as either the Count's or Clarice's, as were his eyes, which sparkled with delight and mirth. 

Clarice found these eyes focused on her after a moment. 

She felt herself blush.

"If I've kept her hidden away at all, Monsieur Fabrizio," the Count then replied, "It was because I wished to incite the insane curiosity of men like you!"

And with that, he held out a hand to Clarice, who stood and took it, coming to stand with the two nobles.  The younger of the two smiled at her, and this time, she was so won over by the amount of friendliness and sincerity in the expression that she found herself genuinely smiling back.  The Count looked from one of them to the other, eyes and face unreadable behind its smile and the mask, for one split second.

Then, "Monsieur, may I have the honour of presenting the lady Clarice Gisèle Violette Marie Boisvert of Rouen?"

"Incantato, mia signora cara," the young man said and took her hand in his, bowing low over it and smiling into her eyes as he kissed its back.  His young voice spoke Italian beautifully, but he also spoke French without a trace of accent.  He straightened, looking at her again, as the Count continued.

"And, milady, may I introduce you to the Duke Fabrizio Rinaldo Salvatore de Luca, of Venice?"

Clarice felt her eyes widen ever so slightly at this – a duke!  She would never have guessed, for he was so young!  He only looked a little older than her.  The Duke read her expression, even though she tried to hide it by curtseying deeply, and turned back to the Count, adding, almost mischievously, "Truly, Signor Erik, you have stumbled upon a rare find!  Many men would wish they had your luck – you've got yourself a real bianca rosa di Francia.  And I envy you."

"Fabrizio…"

The Count said this in a low voice, yellow eyes scanning the boyish nobleman warily, the note in his tone one of warning.  Fabrizio merely waggled his eyebrows in mock-intimidation at Clarice, dark eyes sparkling, and grinned again.

"All right, all right, I get the point.  I do think, mia Francese bella rosa, that your good escort would rather have me take myself off now – however, I do hope that he won't keep you shut in all during your stay here in our lovely city of Milan?"

Clarice smiled in her unknowingly alluring way.

"Perhaps."

Fabrizio returned her smile with a flash of his own brilliant grin.

"Then perchance I may count on you both to come sightseeing in the city with me tomorrow?  If it doing so would be to your pleasure?"

The Count shook his head gently and replied, "I am truly sorry, my friend, but I am not much one for sightseeing.  The lady might find it to her liking, however."

He then turned away slightly, and Clarice gazed at his strong, angular profile for a moment, a line of worry forming between her curving eyebrows.  They had been in the sight of many people on several occasions during their journey, and only that morning he had walked freely among the nobles at Sforzesco Castle…what did this mean?

But she had no more time to think upon it. 

She found herself compelled to forget her concern for her dear friend's sudden strange words and instead reply to the handsome young Duke that she would much enjoy a tour of Milan with him.  He was completely thrilled by her acceptance of his invitation and soon left them.  Not long afterwards, the Count informed her that he must go seek out the object that they had come to Milan in search of – the third piece of the puzzle – and they returned inside. 

There, they parted ways, and Clarice spent the rest of the afternoon in silent, contemplative thought.

*                       *                       *

One morning, two weeks later, found Clarice on her hands and knees, on top of an old gray tarp that had been spread out in the huge drawing room that fronted the Count d'Auberie's chambers, examining a huge marble statue of Julius Caesar.  She was quite liberally covered in dust – both from the statue and the tarp – and even had a smudge of the gray film on her cheek and the tip of her petite nose.

She was so deep in thought that it took her a moment to sense the presence of her partner-employer in the room, but when she did, she gave no indication of being startled by that.  Instead, she spoke, without looking up.

"Buon giorno, signor.  How are you today?"

There was silence from the Count for a moment.

Finally, "I am very well, thank you, milady.  How are you?"

Clarice allowed herself a wry little self-deprecating laugh.  "Well, aside from being covered in marble dust, with a brain aching from so much thought?  I am very well also, my lord.  Would you like to know what I've decided Monsieur le Caesar is meant to tell us – or anyone else with similar objectives to ours?"

She looked up then, through the crooked arm of the ancient Roman ruler, and saw him through the space.  He was leaning up against the wall nearby, arms folded and one leg hooked over the other, nonchalantly supporting him.  His garb was all black and white that day, and his mask was flat, give-nothing black porcelain.

And for the first time since they had met, she found it rather unnerving.

But was it the mask's seeming menace that gave her this feeling, or the strange expression in his eyes?

After a moment of this, the Count nodded, slowly, and she turned back to her work, gesturing to it as she explained.

"Early records of the country of Germany show that it was first inhabited, in its northernmost regions, by any given number of primitive, nomadic Germanic tribes, at around five hundred B.C.  By the time one hundred B.C., these people had advanced upon the mainland of the country and had settled in its central and southern regions.  These were divided into three main groups, which were all themselves separated from the Roman world by the Rhine.  There were several attempts by the Romans to take control of the Germanic people, but none really succeeded."

She paused, and stood up, placing one hand on the left foreleg of the statue's carven stallion, upon which Julius Caesar proudly rode: one hand holding a long spear, the other placed firmly on his chest, in a sort of salute.

"Julius Caesar was one of the many Romans to tangle with the Germanic people, but the exception in his case was that he won a victory over them – he defeated the Suevian tribe at around seventy B.C., and the boundary of the Rhine between Rome and Germany was then established."

"So, it's obvious who this man is from what he looks like," the Count said, waving a hand airily at the statue, "But what does all this have to do with Germany?"

Clarice merely smiled a secretive little smile.

"Just one moment more of your time, milord – I shall explain." She stepped close to the statue's side and pushed against it a little.  It wobbled, almost precariously, and the Count made a swift, involuntary movement towards her, concerned.  Clarice laughed lightly, and asked him, "Did you not notice yourself how strangely insecure this thing was on its base when you found it – wherever you found it?"

He shot her a look that answered her unasked question.

She really didn't want to know where he had found it.

"I took note of it as well," Clarice continued after a moment. "There is an inner rim at the base of this statue, which keeps it from sitting level.  However, there is a small space on its foundation block," she gestured to this, "Which told me that somehow, this statue is meant to be turned around—"

"So that the two pieces fit together."

Clarice smiled, eyes sparkling.

"Like a puzzle."

Moving once again to the statue's side, she gave the higher portion of it – the part that held the Roman emperor and his mount – a gentle, but firm push to one side.  There was a sound of marble gritting against itself, and then a clunk…as it did exactly as Clarice had predicted.  The Count came forward, interest and awe lighting his formerly dull eyes, and stood by her as she explained the last key piece to the puzzle.

"Not long after I had seen this, I also noticed that his hand there – the one on his chest – was not attached to it.  When I moved the statue, that somehow caused the hand to move, to slide down, revealing this."

And then the Count saw that this indeed was true – Caesar's bent arm had moved, coming away from its former position to show that behind it was written a phrase in the German language – the speech of Germany, where Julius Caesar had once fought against the nomadic tribes.  Julius Caesar and Germany, the connecting link of history in this newest part of the mystery.  And that phrase…

"Erfolg in Ihren Reflexionen wird zu Sie am besten an der südlichen Zitadelle der Staufer Könige von alt kommen."

The Count stepped back after reading this, shaking his head in wonder, gazing at the statue with a distant, peculiar light in his yellow eyes.  Clarice looked up at him, glad to see that his dark mood, whatever it meant, had been banished – at least for the time being.  Suddenly, he turned to her and guessed what she had already discovered.

"It's at Harburg Castle."

Clarice nodded.  The fortress that he had just mentioned was one of the oldest and largest castles in all of southern Germany.  Looming high above the river Wörnitz, it had been the home of the Staufer-kings, who had lived in 1079-1272 A.D. 

That was where he would go.

He turned to Clarice and – in a startling, prepossessing moment – they found themselves swimming in the deep, fathomless ocean of one another's eyes.

Then he turned away, withdrawing from her.

"I'll leave as soon as I can."

She remained where she was: the feeling that, somehow, they had almost connected – regained what she felt they had somewhat denied themselves in the last two weeks…and that he had now shunned her.  Helplessly, she made a small gesture with her hands, letting them fall listlessly back to her sides.

"I'll be here waiting for you."

*                       *                       *

"It's been said that they will wed before the summer is ended, milord…and that you will be the one to give her away at the altar."

Depression.

Grief.

Pain.

Anger.

Devastation.

"How did it come to this?"

What were you expecting?

"I didn't want this."

What did you want?

It was the perfect vision: the handsome, prosperous, gentle young Italian duke, living happily with his beautiful, sweet young bride: his white rose of France.

La rose blanche de France.

I may be silent and watchful outside…but inside, I am screaming: screaming a ragged, despairing, endless, inhuman scream.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So, as we have it now, we've got a male lead, a female lead, several secondary characters, a villain, a mystery for a plot, and now a romantic interest.  I'll add on soon, if school, life in general, writer's block, and research don't get in my way.  Thankfully, my library has a great section on European countries, including books on the Renaissance…otherwise I'd be dead by now.  Library and the 'net – my two greatest assets. 

Questions, comments, concerns?  R&r and I will answer back to the best of my abilities!

*  Incantato, mia signora cara – Enchanted, my dear lady.

*  bianca rosa di Francia – white rose of France

*  mia Francese bella rosa – my beautiful French rose

*  Erfolg in Ihren Reflexionen wird zu Sie am besten an der südlichen Zitadelle der Staufer Könige von alt kommen – Success in your reflections will come to you best at the southern citadel of the Staufer-Kings of old.