Disclaimer: Don't own history. Bladdee-blah-blah-blah. Enjoy!
Chapter Eleven - Plots in the Dark "May I have the pleasure of this dance, milady?"At the sound of the voice behind her, Clarice turned around, drawing herself out of her silent, pensive contemplation of the more shadowy regions of the vast ballroom, and smiled wanly at Fabrizio, who had just spoken.
"As always, monsieur, I would be delighted."
With a warm smile on his friendly, attractive features, Fabrizio took the girl's hand and drew her out onto the dance floor, into the sea of other couples that were taking their places for the next dance.
As Clarice and Fabrizio positioned themselves and the musicians tuned up, Fabrizio looked carefully at his companion.
The beautiful young French girl's graceful, curving features were normally alight with happiness and some sort of inner mirth, causing her entire being to seem to sparkle…but not tonight. And not earlier in that day, and not in the day or night before that. For the past several days, she had seemed as if she was mulling over something in her head, and it was beginning to cast a serious pall over her usual gaiety.
Fabrizio was not the type of man who simply dismissed women's emotions as simply part of their gender – as with any other person that he came into contact with, he tried to understand what a woman's feelings were, for they were just as real as those of a man.
And hence he voiced his concern.
"Claire…"
During the time that they had spent in one another's company in her stay at Sforzesco Castle, they had become fast friends – as was both their wont – and they had quickly taken to calling each other by their first names.
Not seeming to have heard him, Clarice continued to gaze off into the mass of courtiers and nobles around them, her green eyes distant.
He was certain that something was wrong now – she was always extremely alert about everything. Gently, he freed one of his hands from hers and moved it to her chin, turning her face towards him and tipping it up, so that he could look into her eyes.
"Claire," he repeated, and then she seemed to at last become aware of him. Her eyes fluttered closed and she shook her head slowly, as if clearing off some sort of daze. Fabrizio watched her, still concerned.
Then, "Oh…yes, Fabrizio?"
He stepped away from her, his hand moving to take hers, and drew her off of the dance floor. Clearly, there was something on her mind, something that was troubling her, and he deeply desired to help her with it, if he could.
Once they were away from the dancers, standing beneath the pillars that surrounded the ballroom, he gazed earnestly into her eyes.
"You know, you've been acting very strangely these last few days," he told her, his voice soft. Good friends as they had become, he did not feel the need to hesitate about broaching the subject of her melancholy air to her.
"Claire, what is troubling you?"
Her green eyes rapidly moved to look up into his, and for a moment, he saw something flicker within them, like a flame somewhere in the midst of a deep, green forest.
And then, before he could think about what it meant, it was gone.
She turned her head aside, providing him with an extensive view of her elaborately styled hair – done in the mode of the Italian ladies, who preferred to display their own locks rather than hide them as the English and French women did. He heard her reply through the shadows.
"It is nothing…nothing, I tell you. Fabrizio, don't concern yourself for me…"
He put both of his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her silky skin through the delicate, transparent gauze of the sleeves of her gown, and turned her gently but firmly towards him.
"I don't want you to tell me that I should not be concerned for you. Don't you know anything of how I feel for you?" His voice became even more earnest, and he asked, leaning towards her and lowering his voice, "What is bothering you, mia bianca rosa? Is it those awful lady courtiers? Has someone vexed you? Please, you must tell me; if anyone has been unkind to you, I will attend to it!"
Clarice finally looked back up at him, and this time, she was smiling gently, almost sadly.
"You feel this way…for me?"
Fabrizio reached down and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, squeezing it warmly.
"There," he said. "Does that not prove it to you? I care for you deeply, cara bella – I am your friend, and I will not see you hurting, or in any sort of trouble. If you will speak of what is on your mind, I will listen, and I will try to help as I may…and if it is not your wish to tell me of it, then I will let it go at that."
Then he shook his head, the mirth leaving his eyes for the first time in their acquaintance. His next words were whispered.
"But don't tell me not to care for you."
They were silent then for several long moments, wordless, with the music of the ball playing cheerfully in the background, the chattering voices, whirling clothing, and clicking shoes gradually ebbing back into their minds, recalling them to reality. Then, finally, Clarice sighed and shook her head.
"You can never understand some people, Fabrizio…"
And then he knew what it was – what had been troubling her.
"It's him, isn't it?" he asked, serious and grim. "It's Erik."
Erik. How much more had he been in her life than Fabrizio, and yet she still felt as if she hardly knew him? And now, Fabrizio seemed to be increasingly more in her life, whilst the Count seemed to fade. She wanted to reach out and grab hold of him, and drag him back out of the encroaching darkness, bring him to the light and make him live.
Erik. She had yet to even call him his real name.
She caught herself up on a choking sob.
"Yes – it's him."
And all at once she melted into the young Duke's arms, as any young girl would when her friend was there to comfort her; Fabrizio held her for a moment, and then he said softly, "Let's delay our time at the fete for a while, bella rosa. Come with me."
Clarice nodded, her green eyes glistening like emeralds with the floods of tears that she held within them, and let her friend lead her out of the room and into a salon of sorts. There, Fabrizio seated her on one of the low couches that had been set about the space and left her for a moment to retrieve something for her to drink.
When he had seated himself on the couch beside her, he was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "Tell me."
She glanced at him briefly, and then turned her gaze to the filmy, voluminous skirts of her ball gown, which shimmered about her in pale, wispy layers of delicate lavender, blue, and silver material, adjusting the hang of its various adornments. As she did so, she finally spoke.
"He's very…enigmatic. Isn't he, Fabrizio?"
The young Duke nodded, in solemn agreement.
"That's the least you could call 't, milady," he replied. "I've known him for what seems to be the better part of my life – which isn't that much to speak of anyway, just nineteen years – and yet I still feel as if I…"
"Hardly know him." Clarice joined in. At his quietly surprised look, she shrugged and said, simply, "I feel the same." Then, she sat up straight again, green eyes flicking up to gaze at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling, her head cocking slightly to one side.
"And yet…yet I also feel as if I know more about him than anyone else…as if he's decided to show me things about him that no one else has ever seen."
Fabrizio nodded.
"He is a special friend…no?"
Clarice nodded, distantly.
"A very special friend." Her next words were almost lost in the darkness and silence of the room. "My first friend."
A pause.
"But now, suddenly…it seems as if he is…I don't know – angry with me, or whatnot, although I cannot think of why. I cannot recall whether I might have done something to offend him…"
"You would not deserve to receive such an impression from him even if you had done such a thing!" Fabrizio retorted, passionately. "First of all, because he is a gentleman, and that is not the way ladies are to be treated, and secondly – and more importantly – because you are you. It is simply unimaginable, and next to impossible, that he would treat you cruelly because of something you had done."
"But if I have offended him, I would deserve it!" Clarice fired back, cheeks flushing in protest, eyes lighting.
"That is not his nature, Claire." Fabrizio placed his hand on top of hers, gazing into her eyes earnestly. "You've not offended him, and he would not punish you by treating you aversely if you had. It must be something else."
Her green eyes held his for a moment longer, then dropped.
"I hope, and pray, that is so," she murmured.
Fabrizio leaned forward, feeling desperately compelled to comfort the beautiful maiden who sat beside him, consumed by grief and worry that her friend – her dear friend – was angry with her, and had thus left her alone.
"Claire…" he said, and she looked at him…
Suddenly, they heard footsteps approaching and voices – those of two men – nearing the door. Clarice suddenly stiffened, alarming Fabrizio. "Clarice, what is it—" he began, but her next words cut him off.
"The Marquis de Mercier!"
And she hastily grabbed a hold of the confused duke's sleeve and literally hauled him out of the main part of the room, and into the shadows behind a recessed portion of the wall. There, with the both of them pressed up against the wall, Fabrizio stared at her, aghast at this seemingly strange behavior from his beautiful companion.
"Clarice!"
She clamped a small, slender little hand – a hand that seemed so fragile, so light and hummingbird-like at times – over his mouth, effectively silencing him, hissing, "Shh! They're coming in here!"
And Fabrizio could do nothing more – she had her elbow pressed up against his diaphragm, and somehow he got the idea that if he made any noise or effort to depart, therein disobeying her, she would have no compunction about jamming that elbow into his stomach. So he receded and was quiet.
Once, during their stay in Milan, the Count, his manservant Jean-Pierre Colbert, Clarice, her handmaid Chlöe, and Fabrizio had had a rather unpleasant run-in with the Marquis de Mercier one day on the tennis court. The Marquis had been all suavity and elegance, but Clarice could not rid herself of the disgusted feeling that she had received when the handsome young noble had greeted her. She remembered all-too-vividly the way her hand had felt as if they had just touched something slimy and reptilian after he had kissed it upon their initial introduction. She had sensed a similar vibe from the Count, who had seemed very much loath to speak with his fellow Frenchman.
And now, she and Fabrizio were trapped in a room that the Marquis was about to enter, with no way to make an escape without encountering him.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, hoping that they would not be sighted and that she could simply ignore whatever scene was about to happen. Beside her, Fabrizio was as silent as she, seeming to have sensed her unfriendly air, and beyond them, the door of the room was pushed open, admitting two newcomers.
"It took you long enough to get here!"
Clarice recognized the smooth, but vilely arrogant tones of the Marquis de Mercier.
He seemed to be angry about something.
"I hope you have a good excuse for causing me to wait for so long – do you realize how suspicious it seems that I have hardly been at the ball this evening, when I promised that I would be in attendance?"
"Pardon, my lord," came the unappreciative, grumbling reply of the Marquis's companion, "But I will have you know that it is not my fault that our meeting was put in delay! If your friends would have been a bit less concerned with protocol—"
"Silence!"
Clarice could just imagine the Marquis's slender, elegant hand flying up from his side to punctuate that word, stiff with anger. There was silence for a moment, and then, with urbane, oily calm, "Now listen. If we are to do this, we mustn't go about arguing about who has made what mistakes. We all have our faults. Agreed?"
Grudgingly, "Agreed."
"Very good."
Clarice wanted to choke on the horrible, saccharine sweetness of the Marquis de Mercier's voice. Instead, she simply clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.
Leave, blast you!
Not too lady-like, but that couldn't be helped.
Meanwhile, the conversation continued.
"Now…are you certain that he intends to leave on the morrow?"
"Yes, my lord. We heard him say so."
"Are your men ready?"
"I am not certain, milord."
There was a sudden, tense silence, and then – suddenly – that void was broken by the sound of glass shattering, liquid splashing, and then the roar of the flames in the fireplace, which brightened the room for an instant. Clarice and Fabrizio winced back, startled, and then the Marquis's voice railed, in barely controlled irritation, "Why ever not? This will be simple! Like – like stealing candy from a child…it couldn't get any easier if you tried to make it so!"
"My men think not. The last time that you told us stealing something from him would be easy," Stealing? Clarice's heart thudded in her chest in a sickening, awful instant. The Marquis de Mercier…was a thief? Was in the company of thieves? She glanced quickly at Fabrizio, whose expression mirrored the same thoughts. Clarice then decided to listen more closely to the conversation.
"…two of my men wound up caught – they are now in an English prison awaiting trial on charges of theft and piracy. Now what do you say to that?"
There was a soft, throaty laugh from the Marquis at that point: a laugh full of cold, malicious, and utterly cruel mirth. Clarice shuddered.
"It was their own fault then." The mood instantly became deadly serious. "Now, listen to me – you and your men are to go to the border between Germany and Switzerland and wait by the roadside, and when the Count d'Auberie makes his appearance, you will strike."
Erik! NO!
Everything seemed to move in slow motion around her; a heavy weight was pressing upon her breast and her breath came slow and sluggish. She felt as if she was choking, pinned to the wall by some heavy weight, unable to move or even think – only capable of listening to the rest of the horrible, maddening conference.
"Impossible," came the other man's reply. "He has the reflexes of a tiger. There will be no taking him against his will."
"He will never expect it," the Marquis's suave, reptilian voice assured. "He won't even know what hit him…until it's too late."
A pause.
"Now go."
Clarice was only barely aware of the sound of the other man's departure, and then, moments later, that of the Marquis as well. But when the room was empty at last, except for the two young courtiers, she still could not find the power to make herself move – to rouse herself from her horrified, paralyzing stupor.
The Marquis…the road from Germany…the border…too late…!
She felt hands coming to grasp her arms, drawing her away from the wall and making her stand straight on her feet once again, heard Fabrizio's worried young voice saying her name again and again, trying to reach her. And then she came out of the awful daze and into the even more appalling reality. The Marquis de Mercier was in league with thieves – and he had just plotted in the dark to capture her dearest friend!
"Fabrizio, we've got to warn him…warn him…we've got to tell him, make him stay away…we've got to help him, before it's too late – too late…"
* * *
Rescues are very odd things.
One can never predict what such a thing will involve, and, more often than not, it turns out to be completely different than anyone could expect.
An example of this occurred on a searing hot July day in Italy: in Milan, to be more exact, and in one of its more desolate and despicable corners. This side of the city rarely saw any person who was wealthier than a middle-class merchant, but on one particular day, it was host to a pair of young visitors, fresh from the court at Sforzesco Castle. Of course, these two had taken the proper precautions to avoid being recognized as nobility, but their true identities were quite apparent in their manners and speech.
One was a pleasant-looking young man: a native Italian. His companion was a beautiful young French girl.
It was Fabrizio de Luca and Clarice Boisvert.
And what had drawn them out of their natural element, and into the most disreputable regions of Milan?
The answer to that lies in the events of a fortnight past. Clarice had, one afternoon, been out with Fabrizio and her handmaid, sightseeing once again in the bright, enchanting streets of upper class Milan. As she waited for Fabrizio to come out of the patisserie that they had briefly stopped in to, she found herself greeted by a rather strange-looking character, who appeared as if he belonged in an altogether different walk of life.
This individual approached her cautiously, bobbing hasty, almost nervous little bows, as if he expected that she would turn on him and, like the goddess that she easily resembled, strike him down with the lightning of her beautiful green eyes.
"M'lady?"
She had turned, and thence received a brief message: she was awaited, in a certain inn somewhere in Milan, by someone who very much desired to speak with her. She must got there straight and attend to this matter. When she asked who this person was, she was startled – frightened – by the reply.
It was her uncle, Felix Boisvert.
Just in the nick of time, when she most needed him, Fabrizio had come out of the shop with their purchases, and she had turned to him, seeking the reassurance of his quiet, understanding strength.
The young duke roundly questioned the messenger, and, at length, it was established that the sender of this summons was indeed M. Boisvert. However, Fabrizio was reluctant to let Clarice take herself off to the darker side of Milan. From what he had gathered, Felix Boisvert was not the most terrific person to have dealings with, and he certainly did not remotely like mysterious messages from doubtful sources. But, it was, in the end, decided that to this inn they would go.
And so they did.
The inn was a dusty, murky place, with scarcely a soul to boast the patronage of. Fabrizio stepped out of the carriage they had arrived in with a look of supreme loathing and suspicion on his handsome young face. He turned briefly to Clarice, reaching out a hand to her so that she might exit the carriage.
"Claire, I must say – I don't like this. Not one bit."
The girl looked around herself, pulling her scarf more closely about her face and head, seeming to withdraw from her filthy surroundings slightly, in spite of her firm, unbending, stiff-upper-lip resolve.
"Neither do I, Fabrizio…but it really can't matter."
And then they went inside, after Fabrizio had paid their driver and instructed him to wait for their return. They were greeted by a weathered, grim-looking older man: the innkeeper, doubtless, who stood behind the kitchen bar, eyeing them sourly as they came in through the door.
Fabrizio stepped forward, removing the hood of his cloak and asking as he did so, "Pardon, signor – we seek the French merchant Felix Boisvert."
He glanced Clarice, who was surveying the room in silence, half turned away from him. Then, quickly – almost desperately, "Can you tell us where we can find him?"
The Italian innkeeper glared at him from under shaggy eyebrows for a moment longer, then turned his head aside and spat contemptuously into a barrel that was behind the bar. Fabrizio winced, but it was scarcely noticeable.
"Yes, we've got a merchant Boisvert here," was the growling reply.
Clarice's head instantly turned back towards him, her green eyes lighting up with hope that this mission was not entirely in vain. The merchant glared at her balefully then, and continued, "He's upstairs in the west garret room – you'll have to find your own way there, though, and only the girl's supposed to go up."
Fabrizio started forward at this, livid, and the innkeeper held up a hand, not to be swayed by the boy's anger.
"Only the girl. You – wait here."
With that, he turned and shuffled off, disappearing from the bar into the murky depths of the kitchen, and Fabrizio faced Clarice, despairingly.
"Claire, I'll not have you traversing this place alone! If you think for one moment that I'll leave you to go up there—"
She stepped forward and put a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Fabrizio, please – thank you for your concern for me, but I can manage myself." Then she subtly patted the part of her skirt that was nearest to its waistline and hinted, "I learned a few things from the Count back in France."
Then she left his side and went off to the flight of stairs that led up into the further regions of the inn. Fabrizio watched her go, and then flopped down in defeat and heavy concern into one of the dining chamber's chairs.
* * *
Meanwhile, Clarice had made her way up the dark stairs and down the hall, searching for the west garret room. She finally came to the end of the hall, where she found what had to be the aforementioned chamber. She paused outside the door, a million doubts, worries, and questions whirling in her mind. Why was Felix in Italy? Had he somehow tracked her there? And what did he want? Was it not enough for him that he was rid of her…?
And then she knocked lightly on the door.
"Come in."
The voice that hailed her was unquestionably her uncle's: she had no doubts about that. Thus emboldened by the knowledge that she was now facing familiar territory, she put her hand to the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open, and entered the room. All was empty within: the curtains at the windows were worn and old, hanging in tattered yellow remnants before the dusty glass panes. She felt her brow furrow.
"Uncle?"
"Confound it girl! You don't have to be so blasted loud about it, you little tromping elephant."
What irony. Clarice felt her lips twist at the name that she had just been called. It had been used in reference to her person before, but only in a much different manner.
And with that, her uncle stepped forward out of the shadows at the back of the room. Clarice drew herself up with the proud air of resolute, elegant coldness that she had learned to take on in such situations from her time at court. Her complexion turned completely white, making her eyes seem all the darker, her lips all the more crimson. Felix eyed her, looking as if he was confronting a venomous snake.
"Well, aren't you the pretty little puffed-up courtier, all a-flounce and a-flutter with ribbons and lace and dainty little posies?" her uncle sneered, unkindly. "I am honoured that you deign to bring your presence down to such mere mortals as me!"
"Speak your business, uncle, or I shall have done with this conference." Clarice said, coldly.
"My business? Oh – but of course!"
Clarice suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with the dawning sensation that something was very, very wrong with the scene before her.
She had been tricked.
And, as if to prove all that, she found herself roughly grabbed by the arms and hauled backwards, someone's large, calloused hand clamping down over her mouth. She struck out at her assailant, kicking, scratching, biting, wriggling like an eel, but it was no use. Within moments, she was subdued by two hooded men, and saw that more had appeared out of the darkness. Her green eyes glared at her uncle: You did this!
Felix just stood there, watching, and Clarice then saw one of the men in the room – there were seven now, she saw – move away from his comrades and come towards her.
"You sent word to the Count d'Auberie, warning him that he was to be waylaid along the road back from Harburg, didn't you?" a rough voice demanded. When she didn't give any answer to this, the man stepped forward and grabbed her arm, twisting it back and around until tears sprung up into her eyes with the pain, his other hand clamping onto her face, fingertips digging into her cheeks. Through the blur of pain, she heard the question again, "Didn't you?"
She made a movement with her head, and he released her face. Clarice moved her jaw, trying to alleviate the soaring pain in it, and then she glared into the eyes of her hooded interrogator.
"You go back to the underworld where you belong!"
The man made a strangled sound of rage, and pulled back his arm; Clarice turned her head to one side, steeling herself for what was coming—
And then there was a crashing sound: a sound of splintering wood and booted feet thudding on the floor as two male figures came hurdling into the room, swords drawn.
The men who held Clarice were the first to be the brunt of the attack: they were both slashed by the sword of the taller man – none other than Erik, the Count d'Auberie himself – and then dealt a swift kick in the gut and shins by the same. Clarice stepped free from them as soon as she found the hold on her person relinquished and was swiftly, but gently whirled to one side by her rescuer, the Count, who then put her behind himself in safety, backing her towards the door.
"Get outside, milady!" he snapped, yellow eyes focused on his prey within the room. "You as well, Fabrizio!"
Clarice did as she was told and found herself shielded from her attackers now by the young Duke, who quite aptly put all of his opponents to rest on the floor, knocked cleanly unconscious.
The duel inside the room, however, raged on. The Count was, unfortunately for his attackers, one of the best swordsmen in Europe.
If not the very best.
Soon, all but Felix and the man who had interrogated Clarice were left standing…and then something very shocking happened.
As the Count faced the two of them, breathing hard, yellow eyes still blazing with utterly terrifying fury, the still-hooded man turned on Felix. "Monsieur, think of God!" were his words – and then he thrust his sword forward—
Fabrizio quickly shouldered his way in front of Clarice, blocking the view into the room through the door, and held her against his chest. She didn't move, stunned.
There was a dull thud of a collapsing body on the wooden floor.
Silence.
The Count looked at his last standing opponent, a deadly coldness vibrating from him. Then, "You manipulated him. You threatened him, forced him to do your bidding, and now you kill him. If anyone should think of God now, monsieur, it should be you."
A rattling, coarse laugh.
"You can't end it now, you know – it's already too late!"
The Count's yellow eyes narrowed.
"It ended a long time ago."
And then everything became a blur: the hooded man lashed out at the Count, who retaliated with a cold, clean efficiency, utterly calm and devoid of emotion. It was all over within a split second: one swift flick of a silver blade, a flurry of movement, a low moan, and then one last thud, and the room was filled with unconscious – and two dead – bodies. The Count remained standing with his back to them for one long moment.
Then he turned around, and his wonderful yellow eyes – which were the most beautiful things in the world to Clarice in that moment – locked onto her face.
He opened his arms, Fabrizio released her, she rushed forward.
Silence. Blissful, safe, passionate silence.
Rescues are very odd things.
One can never predict what such a thing will involve, and, more often than not, it turns out to be completely different than anyone could expect.
* * *
A/N: Somewhat of a cliffhanger, but hey! It's a romance/mystery, and there aren't a whole lot of mysteries that explain everything right off. (Not the good ones, at any rate…) And if you've learned anything from my previous writings, none of my romances resolve themselves easily either. So…here's a promise to write again soon, and now a good night! Until later, my friends!
