The spirit of Jack Daniels has struck again.
This is based on a movie called Lady Hawk. It's an 80s movie. I'm hoping I can write this in such a way that you don't have to watch it. If you have watched it, great. If you want to watch it, great.
Just remember that it's an 80s movie. For as much as I like it, the 80s is very strong and the pacing a little off. And sometimes there's a lotta cringe. But still a super good story. Which is why I'm doing this.
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Navarre glared over the ramparts of the city of Aquila, across its encompassing moat and into the countryside. His eyes rebelled against the April sun. Their icy color a defiant glacial blue as they examined the land, unblinking. The rolling green hills, the distant white topped mountains, scattered fields of dark earthen brown. A beautiful prospect, yet his eyes stared unseeing.
His mind remained in past battles. Specifically in the cries of his comrade, Lorenzo, for his wife. Navarre replayed the cry over and over, sensing the affection below the agony. He longed for such a relationship, a deep companionship.
He was beginning to feel time moving swiftly. He felt like half a person, and mere a tool the bishop could dust off and use when it suited him. Navarre gave a self deprecating smirk. "The Bishop would not even have to dust me off," he thought. He was meticulous, to his men's dismay. Navarre took his role as Captain of the Guard seriously and stoically, as his father before him taught.
His hand absent mindedly reached and felt the sword at his hip. A sword that had been in his family for five generations. Inlaid with jewels at the hilt to represent each man's success in their life quest. His fingers rested in an empty slot. His place to fill before passing the sword to his son. The sword had never known defeat.
Until now.
This brought him back to the cries for a wife. He hadn't a wife, so he had no children. And to make matters worse: he had no quest either. The sword was defaulting to defeat in his hands.
Navarre turned from the ramparts with a sigh, feeling his failure deeper today than other days. The sword would be buried with him, space unfilled and family line discontinued. More than five generations of strong, successful men, to end with him. The ultimate failure.
Navarre walked down the stairs to the training grounds, ready to drive himself and his men through a punishing training session. Perhaps to prove to his mind through his strength, his skill or his leadership that he was not a failure.
When his men saw his tall figure and signature corn silk hair marching towards the training grounds with a pained look in his eye, they groaned. Though they would follow him through hell, they dreaded the training to get there.
The training bore fruit though. The guard was superb, well trained, and greatly provided for. The captain of the guard could see the weakness in each man. He would train one on one until the weakness was gone. As grateful as the men were afterwards, the training was exhausting.
Whatever else could be said, it was well known that Etienne Navarre led one of the best guards in the empire.
OOXXOOXoXXx
Navarre sat on his great black war horse, Goliath, for inspection from the Bishop. His face was as cold and stony as the ice topped mountains. His guard lined behind him, standing or mounted, lined according to office and rank.
It was a spectacle for the nobles of Aquila. An event to attend so to speak. But Navarre paid no heed to the commotion as the new Bishop continued his admiration of the guard. This man was recently appointed when the last Bishop had died that winter. Navarre was sad to see the man go. A kinder, wiser man had never lived. Alas, his recommendation for a successor seemed off the mark. The new Bishop's admiration held a hungry glint. A glint that did not sit well with Navarre.
After the bishop released them, they marched off.
In relative seclusion his men erupted in whispers. "Did you see her?" "My God, it was like looking at an angel!" "Like looking at the face of love!"
Navarre repressed a smirk as he handed Goliath to a squire. The horse examined Navarre for a second, shook his mane before lumbering away with a huff. "My men," Navarre thought, "are no better than old women. One newcomer and they fall to pieces." He subtly wished he had seen the new woman, to see if she indeed had the face of love. No, he couldn't believe it, such things only belonged in faerie tales. He shook his head, pushing down his laugh, before sternly ordering his men to collect themselves.
He then marched up the tower off the training ground to his quarters and helped his squire take off his armor. Piece by black piece, meticulously cleaned, and put back together.
OOXXOOXoXXx
Navarre strode into the dining hall where he was to be a guest. He maintained his black clothes, breast and shoulder plates, in case he was required to fight. As captain, he never truly had a day off.
As usual, he was slightly surprised at the elegance of the dining hall. A lyre and flute player sat in the corner playing softly and calmly. There was no raucous laughter, clanking glasses, or drunken brawls. The women giggled softly, and the men spoke gently. Navarre felt his arms getting limper the longer he stayed. He could feel eyes on him, but he paid no mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he did spy one familiar drunken face. He gave a sly smirk as he walked over to the man.
"Father Imperious," he said in way of greeting, "I wasn't aware you would be coming."
"For free food and wine?" the priest burped, "I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in Rome." Navarre shook his head and clapped his priest on the shoulder.
"Save me that seat, won't you?" Navarre commanded. His old friend nodded with a happy grin and turned back to his plate. He turned his face to the new Bishop and went to go and greet his host.
But his usual purposeful, confident stride was interrupted by a beautiful, melodious laugh. Not a titter, or giggle. Or a cackle or bellow. But a laugh. His eyes immediately seized onto the sound and pulled along his gaze to a woman. A beautiful woman. It was like looking at the face of love.
His stride found new purpose and before he knew it, he stood at attention before the angel. Her summer sky blue eyes turned to look at him. He suddenly felt self conscious as he towered over the others in the room, and dressed solely in black he stuck out, a crow amongst the peacocks. His tongue was tied and heavy in the face of her gaze, making him a little more self conscious.
Her skin was fair and clean. Her figure was long and slender, her beautiful face propped up on a long, white hand. Her hair was the color of honey as it twirled alongside her face. Her mouth turned up in an impish smile while those blue eyes glittered with intelligence. Nothing could escape those eyes, certainly not Navarre. They were so full of mirth he felt he would die to keep even an ounce of pain from them. She was a summer day, bright, clean and beautiful. He suddenly believed in faerie tales.
Those pink lips smiled and moved. Navarre heard nothing. Her face evolved into a beautiful laugh, but Navarre heard nothing. One of her dark eyebrows rose and her face grew an endearing mischievous look. He could watch her for years. Until she looked at him confused, then shrugged and turned away to her companion.
The world popped and suddenly sound reached his ears. The music played and the people chattered. He gave himself a mental check, to see if his mouth was open or he had gone cross eyed. Thankfully, he had done nothing awkward, except for glare at an angel. He took a step forward to her, commanding her gaze back to him. But really he was the one to be commanded when her attention enveloped him.
"Are you ready to speak now?" she teased with a questioning look. Even her voice was smooth and calming.
"I am, my lady," he said, giving a slight bow.
"Excellent!" she smiled, "I couldn't fathom why you would come over in such a state just to glare." He had the grace to blush a shade, but he maintained eye contact, afraid now to look away.
"I didn't mean to stare," he said, offering an apologetic smile.
"No one ever does," she said, with a shrug but a twinkle in her eye.
"I am Etienne Navarre," he said, hoping for her name, "I am the captain of the guard here."
"How fascinating, my cousin and I were at your presentation. Very orderly and impressive! You must be very proud."
"I'll have to pass along your congratulations to my men. I am very proud of them," he said, lamenting at the purposeful exclusion of her name. Now it was her turn to be silent. Her gaze held him as a very willing prisoner as she considered him.
"A noble who passes up on a compliment?" she said with a happy gaze and upturned smile. "I am all astonishment. I'm sure my cousin, Beatrice, will feel the same. I am impressed, Captain Navarre," she said. He opened his mouth to beg her name, but a hand tapped on his shoulder plate. A servant stood behind him.
"The Bishop has requested to see you, Captain," he said. Navarre felt frustrated, and must have looked it, because the lady laughed melodiously.
"Don't look so cross Captain! I will be remaining in Aquila with my cousin. I'm sure our paths will cross again." He could bear it no longer.
"Please my lady," Navarre begged, unused to the taste of begging, but it suited him when it was for her, "a name." The servant grew restless next to him.
"You have a name. It's much more exciting this way Captain," she said with a smile and a glint in her eye that made the Captain inclined to agree with her. He bowed and turned to follow the servant. A quick glance back revealed she still watched him. He felt warmer than any wine could give.
He followed the servant to the head of the hall. At the Bishop's seat he bowed deeply, pressing a kiss to the ring on the Bishop's outstretched hand. When he looked up into the man's eye, there was a hostile glint, contrasting starkly with his white mitre and robes.
"I see you found our newest occupant," he said.
"I did, she refused to give me her name though," Navarre begrudgingly admitted, still upset that his begging hadn't worked. The Bishop looked suspiciously pleased with this knowledge. Strange for a holy man, a celebate man. He felt uncomfortable under the Bishop's stare, though he could not place why. All the warmth from speaking with the golden lady was gone. "She seemed to only tolerate my intrusion," he said.
The Bishop seemed gleeful at this pronouncement, though it did not go past a chilling smile. Maybe Navarre read too much in the Bishop's eye, no one around seemed to find anything wrong with the Bishop. In fact, everyone was trying to be close to the man.
"Indeed?" The Bishop asked calmly, "such a shame. But still, I must congratulate you on the state of your guard."
"Thank you, your grace, but it is my men that deserve the praise."
"You must pass off my congratulations to them then," he said, before quickly looking down. "If I might ask," he continued hesitantly, his black eyes flicking up and locking with Navarre icy ones, "are you looking for a wife?" Navarre felt a sinking dread in his stomach that surprised him. Perhaps it was the noise of the celebration.
"Of course, your grace, but no one comes to mind presently," Navarre lied, seeing the honey gold curls and summer eyes.
"Such a pity," the Bishop said, with his lips pulling upwards. Navarre bowed in response and the Bishop waved him off.
As he turned, he clandestinely looked at the woman seat. It was vacant, as was the one next to her. He maintained a steady pace back to Father Imperious, taking care to not look at the woman's seat.
Imperious offered him food and wine, which he took. The old priest rambled on, and usually Navarre enjoyed his rambles and grievances. But in his mind he was distracted. He had found her. Now he must win her.
The hunt was on.