Carrenworth: The Vengeance: Chapter Nineteen: "Eating Cake"
Marie Antoinette still denied everything.
As rumors do in all courts, there were stealthy whisperings in the halls, at the King's levee, and in the balconies filled with fortune noblemen watching the royal family partake of their evening meal. The gossip twittered about among the nobles concerning the alleged affair between the Queen and her mysterious red-haired Briton. The dinner observers watched with great fascination the one night he was invited to dine with the Bourbons. Women with tiny pink lips peered through opera glasses at the beautiful young man.
Where King Louis XVI devoured food with the relish of a half-starved peasant, plate after plate passed untouched before Victor Alexander Carrenworth. Even the desserts, marvelous confections created by the finest pastry chefs in France, did not seem to interest him. During the entire dinner he consumed nothing but a small glass of white wine. When their Queen had first come to France as a teenage Austrian princess she had been made so nervous by the eyes peering at her from the balcony that she had been unable to eat. There was nothing in the young man's demeanor to hint at nervousness. The observers found it charming; he was like Persephone snatched up by Hades, not wanting to partake of the food of the underworld lest he might be forced to remain.
They would have had to be inside Victor's feverish body to know the true reason, the effect of illness upon appetite.
King Louis dined as was his custom, a napkin tucked into his collar and belching loudly at regular intervals, much to the delight of the onlookers. Victor provided a perfect contrast, making amiable conversation with the other diners, much as though he was pleasantly unaware of the audience. His high-pitched voice was more suited to French than English. The Queen stared at him, a dreamy expression gracing her traditionally Hapsburg features.
By the end of dinner, many of the nobles were willing to forgive their Queen. After all, they kept lovers themselves, and if the two were indeed lovers then the Queen was certainly lucky. She deserved a little something for having been married to the pimple-faced King so early in her life.
Queen Marie Antoinette was enchanted. They had met at one of those grandiose parties so common at Versailles, that Victor's social station and royal ancestry entitled him to attend. The Queen assumed that his hair was the thing that first caught her eye, a mass of blood red curls amongst a sea of powder. A spark of life in a land of the dead. There was something about that hair, wild, beautiful, non-conformist. She asked him to dance. It began with that.
While living in exile in France, young Lord Carrenworth shared the Queen's bed on several occasions. And what an odd bed it was, surrounded on all sides by a golden railing. The purpose of which was to keep those who came to witness the royal births at a save distance. She hardly ever spent the night with the King. Versailles was an odd place, full of odd rituals and bizarre intrigues. The only risk for discovery came from Marie's own ladies-in-waiting. They were a nosey bunch with extraordinarily loud mouths.
Eventually, Marie's fascination with Victor developed into a motherly sort of endearment. He was young, he was fragile, and he needed her. She had noticed his pale skin, the visible ribs, and the dreadful cough that only seemed to grow worse with time. There was also the refinement, the grace. He was more kingly than her husband, the sort of prince charming she had dreamt of as a child. Louis could be her friend and her husband, but he could never truly be her lover.
Victor, on the other hand, devoted himself to the Queen in much the same way he devoted himself to anything that interested him. Mostly, he saw her as a means to several very promising ends. Yet, underneath that, she stirred certain feelings that were foreign to his heart. He had known many women, and considered himself a master seducer and romantic. Marie made him feel very different than Veronica with her wine-dark lips, lovely Roxanne, or the nymph Laura.
He had never known a mother. The Queen had given him something of a passable substitute, a confidant.
"Should anything, dear God forbid, ever happen to Louis," Marie whispered, cradling his head in her lap, "I think that you would make quite the fine king."
"You do flatter me, my darling Marie," Victor said with one of his twisted smiles.
The fourth child of Queen Marie Antoinette, Princess Sophie-Helene, died mysteriously at the age of eleven months. Some believed that her early death could be attributed to the fact that she was born with curiously red hair.
* * *
Having left the majority of his dragoons at a reputable looking inn to recover from the overwhelming heat and the long march to Calcutta, Gen. Tavington along with Gen. O'Hara set out on a tour of their new home. They were led by Mooreville, who had returned to India several months previous in order to 'test the waters,' as he put it. He led them through the main square, down numerous small streets, past markets and shops. The people about the streets were mostly natives. It was mid-afternoon and the heat seemed to cause most Britons to take refuge in their homes.
It was unbearably hot. O'Hara found himself cooking beneath his heavy jacket. Mooreville seemed somewhat immune to the heat, and the Irishman assumed it was due to his having been brought up in the country. There was nothing, however, to explain Tavington's disregard for the heat. Despite how he might have really felt the dragoon commander held up remarkably, not bothering to even perspire in the slightest. Mooreville talked at great length, pointing out various buildings and relating much of their histories. He was knowledgeable of native customs, and could name all of the eastern spices being sold at the markets. O'Hara was fascinated.
Tavington surveyed the city with the eye of a tactician, meticulously committing to memory streets, alleys, locations, and observing natives critically. They came up a market, where a large crowd had gathered. A circular arena had been marked off with robe. In the center stood a native of truly monstrous proportion, more a young elephant than a human with dark brown skin and black tattoos that intertwined like serpents.
"Filthy spectacles," Mooreville remarked.
O'Hara was confused. "What do you mean?"
"That's the infamous Bernard Duel," Mooreville replied, pointing out a fat Briton standing near the giant native. He was animated, despite the heat, and seemed to be entertaining the assembled crowd with tales of the native's great victories. The dragoons caught pieces of the stories above the noise, particularly graphic descriptions of limbs being ripped from torsos. "And the big man is Abdul. They travel from province to province. He says he'll pay 3000 pounds to anyone who can defeat Abdul in a swordfight."
"Three thousand pounds!" O'Hara's eyes widened. "Where did he get the money to offer for the reward?"
"He charges a fee for the privilege of giving it a go. Needless to say, no one's ever won. I've seen the native fight. Of course, he's won so much now that only the very ignorant or the very drunk will challenge him."
Tavington, who had been quite for sometime, sizing up the native, looking for weak spots, turned to Mooreville. "I think I'll give it a go."
"Don't," O'Hara exclaimed.
"Why not?" Tavington asked, annoyed at the thought that Mooreville might be doubting his skill.
"You'll die."
The dragoon laughed. "I can't be defeated by an untrained native."
"You were defeated by an untrained colonial," O'Hara whispered, but (luckily) Tavington did not hear him.
The leader of the Green Dragoons dismounted, unsheathed his saber, and walked up to Bernard Duel. Duel had the look of a sideshow manager, he was very red in the face and wearing a ridiculously colorful outfit, and bright yellow coat and a vest decorated in a pattern of red and purple diamonds.
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington inquired offhandedly.
"Uh. excuse me. s-sir." Duel stammered, his eyes fixing on Tavington's saber, which shone deadly and sharp in the India sun.
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington asked again.
A wide smile spread of Duel's fat features. Business had been bad lately.
"Ah, so you want to fight, do you? Well, I can arrange that, for a mere fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds!"
Duel's smile didn't waver. "But think of the reward."
The members of the crowd, who had grown bored with Bernard Duel's stories of Abdul's victories and were anxious to see one for themselves, urged the dragoon on enthusiastically. Despite the steep entrance fee Tavington was not one to pass up a chance at making a profitable first impression. After all, he didn't intend to lose. The only risk was that Mr. Duel would admit that he was not in possession of the reward he offered.
"Very well." Tavington took five ten pound notes from his pocket, a small fortune and all he had, and handed them over to the fat man.
Duel clutched the money in he pudgy fingers, as if he could somehow absorb its essence into his very being.
"Very good then. he's all yours, mister."
"Tavington. General Tavington."
"Of course, Gen. Tavington."
Duel said something to the native in one of the local languages before stepping out of the arena and taking a place amongst the crowd.
The native, Abdul, didn't waste any time, he rushed forward, wielding a great, curved scimitar. In a great swing, he brought it down. The dragoon dodged, and countered with his saber, but Abdul brought the scimitar back up and the two blades hit with a deafening screech. The force of the blow was amazing, nearly knocking the weapon from Tavington's hand, but he was quick to recover, like his opponent.
Abdul retreated a bit. He was used to quick and easy disarms. This wasn't going to be so simple. He wasn't fighting one of those foolish old Britons who fancied himself something of a swordsman. Now it was Tavington's turn to close the gap, pressing the attack with a fury of potentially fatal slashes. Abdul blocked admirably, but his size decreased his dexterity considerably. He was nearly to the edge of the arena before he managed another attack.
This one had the desired effect, sending the dragoon flying backwards. He landed on his knees, back to his opponent. Abdul prepared for the deathblow, with a quick nod to his employer he brought his scimitar down like a Tower of London executioner would wield his axe.
What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion, at least for Abdul. Twirling around, Tavington made a well-targeted swing. The momentum from the downward swing prevented Abdul from recovering in time. His scimitar hit the ground and Tavington's saber connected with his neck. The well- sharpened steal sliced through flesh and bone as though it was a tea cake.
Tavington flicked the blood from his blade as Abdul's head hit the ground, coming to rest next to his scimitar with a sickening plop.
Mooreville, O'Hara, and the rest of the audience burst into wild applause, all except for Bernard Duel who had fainted.
From the shadow cast by a nearby building, protected from the harsh sunlight, the Frenchman smiled. Indeed, he had found the proper man.
Marie Antoinette still denied everything.
As rumors do in all courts, there were stealthy whisperings in the halls, at the King's levee, and in the balconies filled with fortune noblemen watching the royal family partake of their evening meal. The gossip twittered about among the nobles concerning the alleged affair between the Queen and her mysterious red-haired Briton. The dinner observers watched with great fascination the one night he was invited to dine with the Bourbons. Women with tiny pink lips peered through opera glasses at the beautiful young man.
Where King Louis XVI devoured food with the relish of a half-starved peasant, plate after plate passed untouched before Victor Alexander Carrenworth. Even the desserts, marvelous confections created by the finest pastry chefs in France, did not seem to interest him. During the entire dinner he consumed nothing but a small glass of white wine. When their Queen had first come to France as a teenage Austrian princess she had been made so nervous by the eyes peering at her from the balcony that she had been unable to eat. There was nothing in the young man's demeanor to hint at nervousness. The observers found it charming; he was like Persephone snatched up by Hades, not wanting to partake of the food of the underworld lest he might be forced to remain.
They would have had to be inside Victor's feverish body to know the true reason, the effect of illness upon appetite.
King Louis dined as was his custom, a napkin tucked into his collar and belching loudly at regular intervals, much to the delight of the onlookers. Victor provided a perfect contrast, making amiable conversation with the other diners, much as though he was pleasantly unaware of the audience. His high-pitched voice was more suited to French than English. The Queen stared at him, a dreamy expression gracing her traditionally Hapsburg features.
By the end of dinner, many of the nobles were willing to forgive their Queen. After all, they kept lovers themselves, and if the two were indeed lovers then the Queen was certainly lucky. She deserved a little something for having been married to the pimple-faced King so early in her life.
Queen Marie Antoinette was enchanted. They had met at one of those grandiose parties so common at Versailles, that Victor's social station and royal ancestry entitled him to attend. The Queen assumed that his hair was the thing that first caught her eye, a mass of blood red curls amongst a sea of powder. A spark of life in a land of the dead. There was something about that hair, wild, beautiful, non-conformist. She asked him to dance. It began with that.
While living in exile in France, young Lord Carrenworth shared the Queen's bed on several occasions. And what an odd bed it was, surrounded on all sides by a golden railing. The purpose of which was to keep those who came to witness the royal births at a save distance. She hardly ever spent the night with the King. Versailles was an odd place, full of odd rituals and bizarre intrigues. The only risk for discovery came from Marie's own ladies-in-waiting. They were a nosey bunch with extraordinarily loud mouths.
Eventually, Marie's fascination with Victor developed into a motherly sort of endearment. He was young, he was fragile, and he needed her. She had noticed his pale skin, the visible ribs, and the dreadful cough that only seemed to grow worse with time. There was also the refinement, the grace. He was more kingly than her husband, the sort of prince charming she had dreamt of as a child. Louis could be her friend and her husband, but he could never truly be her lover.
Victor, on the other hand, devoted himself to the Queen in much the same way he devoted himself to anything that interested him. Mostly, he saw her as a means to several very promising ends. Yet, underneath that, she stirred certain feelings that were foreign to his heart. He had known many women, and considered himself a master seducer and romantic. Marie made him feel very different than Veronica with her wine-dark lips, lovely Roxanne, or the nymph Laura.
He had never known a mother. The Queen had given him something of a passable substitute, a confidant.
"Should anything, dear God forbid, ever happen to Louis," Marie whispered, cradling his head in her lap, "I think that you would make quite the fine king."
"You do flatter me, my darling Marie," Victor said with one of his twisted smiles.
The fourth child of Queen Marie Antoinette, Princess Sophie-Helene, died mysteriously at the age of eleven months. Some believed that her early death could be attributed to the fact that she was born with curiously red hair.
* * *
Having left the majority of his dragoons at a reputable looking inn to recover from the overwhelming heat and the long march to Calcutta, Gen. Tavington along with Gen. O'Hara set out on a tour of their new home. They were led by Mooreville, who had returned to India several months previous in order to 'test the waters,' as he put it. He led them through the main square, down numerous small streets, past markets and shops. The people about the streets were mostly natives. It was mid-afternoon and the heat seemed to cause most Britons to take refuge in their homes.
It was unbearably hot. O'Hara found himself cooking beneath his heavy jacket. Mooreville seemed somewhat immune to the heat, and the Irishman assumed it was due to his having been brought up in the country. There was nothing, however, to explain Tavington's disregard for the heat. Despite how he might have really felt the dragoon commander held up remarkably, not bothering to even perspire in the slightest. Mooreville talked at great length, pointing out various buildings and relating much of their histories. He was knowledgeable of native customs, and could name all of the eastern spices being sold at the markets. O'Hara was fascinated.
Tavington surveyed the city with the eye of a tactician, meticulously committing to memory streets, alleys, locations, and observing natives critically. They came up a market, where a large crowd had gathered. A circular arena had been marked off with robe. In the center stood a native of truly monstrous proportion, more a young elephant than a human with dark brown skin and black tattoos that intertwined like serpents.
"Filthy spectacles," Mooreville remarked.
O'Hara was confused. "What do you mean?"
"That's the infamous Bernard Duel," Mooreville replied, pointing out a fat Briton standing near the giant native. He was animated, despite the heat, and seemed to be entertaining the assembled crowd with tales of the native's great victories. The dragoons caught pieces of the stories above the noise, particularly graphic descriptions of limbs being ripped from torsos. "And the big man is Abdul. They travel from province to province. He says he'll pay 3000 pounds to anyone who can defeat Abdul in a swordfight."
"Three thousand pounds!" O'Hara's eyes widened. "Where did he get the money to offer for the reward?"
"He charges a fee for the privilege of giving it a go. Needless to say, no one's ever won. I've seen the native fight. Of course, he's won so much now that only the very ignorant or the very drunk will challenge him."
Tavington, who had been quite for sometime, sizing up the native, looking for weak spots, turned to Mooreville. "I think I'll give it a go."
"Don't," O'Hara exclaimed.
"Why not?" Tavington asked, annoyed at the thought that Mooreville might be doubting his skill.
"You'll die."
The dragoon laughed. "I can't be defeated by an untrained native."
"You were defeated by an untrained colonial," O'Hara whispered, but (luckily) Tavington did not hear him.
The leader of the Green Dragoons dismounted, unsheathed his saber, and walked up to Bernard Duel. Duel had the look of a sideshow manager, he was very red in the face and wearing a ridiculously colorful outfit, and bright yellow coat and a vest decorated in a pattern of red and purple diamonds.
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington inquired offhandedly.
"Uh. excuse me. s-sir." Duel stammered, his eyes fixing on Tavington's saber, which shone deadly and sharp in the India sun.
"How much to fight Abdul?" Tavington asked again.
A wide smile spread of Duel's fat features. Business had been bad lately.
"Ah, so you want to fight, do you? Well, I can arrange that, for a mere fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds!"
Duel's smile didn't waver. "But think of the reward."
The members of the crowd, who had grown bored with Bernard Duel's stories of Abdul's victories and were anxious to see one for themselves, urged the dragoon on enthusiastically. Despite the steep entrance fee Tavington was not one to pass up a chance at making a profitable first impression. After all, he didn't intend to lose. The only risk was that Mr. Duel would admit that he was not in possession of the reward he offered.
"Very well." Tavington took five ten pound notes from his pocket, a small fortune and all he had, and handed them over to the fat man.
Duel clutched the money in he pudgy fingers, as if he could somehow absorb its essence into his very being.
"Very good then. he's all yours, mister."
"Tavington. General Tavington."
"Of course, Gen. Tavington."
Duel said something to the native in one of the local languages before stepping out of the arena and taking a place amongst the crowd.
The native, Abdul, didn't waste any time, he rushed forward, wielding a great, curved scimitar. In a great swing, he brought it down. The dragoon dodged, and countered with his saber, but Abdul brought the scimitar back up and the two blades hit with a deafening screech. The force of the blow was amazing, nearly knocking the weapon from Tavington's hand, but he was quick to recover, like his opponent.
Abdul retreated a bit. He was used to quick and easy disarms. This wasn't going to be so simple. He wasn't fighting one of those foolish old Britons who fancied himself something of a swordsman. Now it was Tavington's turn to close the gap, pressing the attack with a fury of potentially fatal slashes. Abdul blocked admirably, but his size decreased his dexterity considerably. He was nearly to the edge of the arena before he managed another attack.
This one had the desired effect, sending the dragoon flying backwards. He landed on his knees, back to his opponent. Abdul prepared for the deathblow, with a quick nod to his employer he brought his scimitar down like a Tower of London executioner would wield his axe.
What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion, at least for Abdul. Twirling around, Tavington made a well-targeted swing. The momentum from the downward swing prevented Abdul from recovering in time. His scimitar hit the ground and Tavington's saber connected with his neck. The well- sharpened steal sliced through flesh and bone as though it was a tea cake.
Tavington flicked the blood from his blade as Abdul's head hit the ground, coming to rest next to his scimitar with a sickening plop.
Mooreville, O'Hara, and the rest of the audience burst into wild applause, all except for Bernard Duel who had fainted.
From the shadow cast by a nearby building, protected from the harsh sunlight, the Frenchman smiled. Indeed, he had found the proper man.