August 8th, 1613
The day of the joust dawned bright and warm, a perfect day so close to the rising of summer for the lords of the court to tilt against one another for the honor of the youngest prince. Despite the previous day's excitement and joy, Alys rose with the dawn, restless and eager to be in the company of her betrothed once again. My betrothed.We're promised to marry! Yet she knew that it was unfeasible to seek him out so early, when the business of his lands and duties must fill the first part of the morning before he could prepare to take his place as the prince's Champion in the lists for the lion's share of the day. She chose, then, to try and fill her time as best she could without disturbing him, knowing a little of the worries that were heaped upon the heads of all the men of the court as the threat from Coimbra grew more menacing.
She sought out her mother to breakfast with her, weathering the gloom of Cecile's disapproval of her love match with a light heart, knowing that while her mother might not be happy to give her daughter to a man who had been born of a common woman, she could not stand in the way of a pairing that had the approval of both the king, and her own husband. Released from the obligation of amusing her mother by the arrival of a young lord who could not be much older than herself, Alys then slipped away to join with her nephews' lessons, engaging with the boys with more enthusiasm than their mother often showed them. Christopher barely recalled her from his early years, Edmund had not met her before this past week, but she was so much like their father, it was impossible not to laugh with their merry aunt, each expressing their own happy surprise at the news that the Duke of Lonnare really was to be their uncle before too much time had passed. Such was their fondness for their father's friend that even had Alys been plain and dull, they would have warmed to her for bringing Charles closer to them.
When the tutor finally tired of the laughter and declared his intention to get something done before the joust began, Alys left them, returning to her own rooms with the intention of reading away the rest of the morning. But her restlessness would not abate, setting her to pacing back and forth to the distraction of her ladies. It was only when Bess, her most trusted maid, pointed out that she could well be wearing a track into the rug laid beneath her feet that the lady noticed her own distraction, laughingly confessing her desire to be with her lord above all else. Bess had a remedy, knowing her mistress only too well. A message was dispatched to Charles' chambers, informing the duke that his betrothed intended to go for a ride and would be returning in an hour, by which time she would very much like to be in his presence for a short while before he must prepare his armor and steed for the joust ahead. And Alys was dispatched herself to the stables, to take up her place in the saddle and let a little fresh air sweep the restlessness from her with speed and freedom, accompanied by a single guard of the King's household.
Much to her amused chagrin, she learned quickly that Bess knew her entirely too well, for the rush of speed, the breath of sea-salted wind, the rhythmic thud of hooves against grass all came together to soothe her agitated body, while her mind found calmer pursuits in admiring the city from the cliffs above it. It will not be long, she promised herself over and over again. A war, even an invasion, cannot take more than a few months, and then we can be married. Then she would no longer be simply Alys Marillier, the king's niece, but Alys Beauforte, Duchess of Lonnare. Yet the title mattered very little to her, her heart yearning to be the wife of the man she loved and had loved almost all the days of her life. Excited once more by the prospect of seeing him so very soon, she turned her horse back to the city and the castle, arriving earlier than she had expected in the great stables.
The guard was dismissed with the expectance of her not remaining for long in such a servants' place, and the moment he was gone, Alys slipped back into the stable itself to seek out her mare, sending the boy away once he had removed saddle and bridle from the creature. She wanted the calming influence of some repetitive task, and rubbing her palfrey down offered the perfect such activity. The grooms had removed the destriers from their stalls in preparation for the joust, leaving the stable complex itself unusually quiet for such a time of day. The bustle of the palace was audible, as always, yet it seemed to come from a great distance away, allowing her to make believe that she was not in the great castle of Bannoc Rise, but in Arindale, the ducal seat of Lonnare and soon to be her home. She let herself enjoy the fantasy, her whole attention upon the sweep of the brush in her hand over the warm hide of her palfrey, unaware that she was being watched.
Count Francis Denhelm stood in the door to the stable, covetous eyes raking over the slender beauty who had been denied to him. He was not a man who took rejection well; nor was he a man who respected the boundaries of promise or marriage. He wanted the Lady Alys, and he fully intended to have her, willing or unwilling. Yet now that wanting was mingled with the satisfaction that despoiling her would sour the hopes of the new Duke of Lonnare, a base-born son of a whore who had risen to greatness beyond his deserving. With a smirk on his handsome features, the count pushed from his lean and stepped into the stable, advancing with the stalk of a predator toward his prey.
Like Alys, Charles had risen early that morning, not because he had a lot to do before the time came for the tournament, but because he was feeling anxious, restless, and excited, partly due to the tournament, but mostly due to his betrothal, at long last, to his lady love. How could he sleep when he was so happy he could hardly contain himself? Parting had been difficult, and it had taken both Will and Christian to finally convince the young lovers to turn in, each going to separate beds in separate rooms to spend the night dreaming of each other. Will had reminded Charles that he was going to need his rest if he wanted to do well in the tournament, but he had risen just before dawn, unable to lie still and quiet much longer.
The early part of the day had been spent going over a mountain of paperwork that had been let go since his journey to fetch Lady Alys - letters, requests, records, and accounts - boring stuff that made him wish he'd stayed in bed. Most of it had already been adequately handled by his steward, but as Duke of Lonnare, he wanted to be kept abreast of all the goings on within his borders, and he especially wanted to remain informed regarding the lands neighboring them to the east - that of their enemy Coimbra. He went over most of that while he breakfasted and well into the morning, conferring with his advisors, taking the matter of a dukedom and an impending war seriously. It was late in the morning when word arrived from his betrothed requesting his presence for a short while before the games were to begin and as much as he was hoping for a quick nap, he could not deny her.
Instead of sending word back asking her to meet him in a neutral place, he decided to surprise her by meeting her before the hour was up at the stables where she would have to return her horse before preparing for the tournament.
He had missed her return by just a few minutes, but he was in time to see Denhelm, the unwelcome count, making his way into the stables themselves, his walk alone declaring that there was some woman who had taken his fancy within. It could have been anyone - a servant, a lady - but for the cadence of voices within that followed soon after. Alys' voice, so familiar and recognizable to Charles' ears, rose in anger at having been surprised, overwhelmed by the insistent tone of the man who had intruded where he was not wanted. And she was abruptly cut off by the sickening crack of flesh on flesh. Unwillingly alone with a predator who would not take no for an answer, it seemed that the count had raised his hand to the duke's betrothed, and was likely to go further if he were not prevented.
Charles arrived just in time to see Denhelm enter the stables, unseen by the man as he was some paces behind him. He thought little of it at first, thinking perhaps the man also wanted to go for a ride, but when he heard the sound of voices rising in anger and recognized one of those voices as belonging to Lady Alys, he quickened his step, arriving just in time to see Denhelm raising a hand to Alys, but not in time to prevent it. He was upon the man in an instant, wasting no time and without hesitation, catching the man's hand before he could strike her again and yanking him around to face him, before throwing his fist against the man's jaw, blue eyes blazing with rage.
The day of the joust dawned bright and warm, a perfect day so close to the rising of summer for the lords of the court to tilt against one another for the honor of the youngest prince. Despite the previous day's excitement and joy, Alys rose with the dawn, restless and eager to be in the company of her betrothed once again. My betrothed.We're promised to marry! Yet she knew that it was unfeasible to seek him out so early, when the business of his lands and duties must fill the first part of the morning before he could prepare to take his place as the prince's Champion in the lists for the lion's share of the day. She chose, then, to try and fill her time as best she could without disturbing him, knowing a little of the worries that were heaped upon the heads of all the men of the court as the threat from Coimbra grew more menacing.
She sought out her mother to breakfast with her, weathering the gloom of Cecile's disapproval of her love match with a light heart, knowing that while her mother might not be happy to give her daughter to a man who had been born of a common woman, she could not stand in the way of a pairing that had the approval of both the king, and her own husband. Released from the obligation of amusing her mother by the arrival of a young lord who could not be much older than herself, Alys then slipped away to join with her nephews' lessons, engaging with the boys with more enthusiasm than their mother often showed them. Christopher barely recalled her from his early years, Edmund had not met her before this past week, but she was so much like their father, it was impossible not to laugh with their merry aunt, each expressing their own happy surprise at the news that the Duke of Lonnare really was to be their uncle before too much time had passed. Such was their fondness for their father's friend that even had Alys been plain and dull, they would have warmed to her for bringing Charles closer to them.
When the tutor finally tired of the laughter and declared his intention to get something done before the joust began, Alys left them, returning to her own rooms with the intention of reading away the rest of the morning. But her restlessness would not abate, setting her to pacing back and forth to the distraction of her ladies. It was only when Bess, her most trusted maid, pointed out that she could well be wearing a track into the rug laid beneath her feet that the lady noticed her own distraction, laughingly confessing her desire to be with her lord above all else. Bess had a remedy, knowing her mistress only too well. A message was dispatched to Charles' chambers, informing the duke that his betrothed intended to go for a ride and would be returning in an hour, by which time she would very much like to be in his presence for a short while before he must prepare his armor and steed for the joust ahead. And Alys was dispatched herself to the stables, to take up her place in the saddle and let a little fresh air sweep the restlessness from her with speed and freedom, accompanied by a single guard of the King's household.
Much to her amused chagrin, she learned quickly that Bess knew her entirely too well, for the rush of speed, the breath of sea-salted wind, the rhythmic thud of hooves against grass all came together to soothe her agitated body, while her mind found calmer pursuits in admiring the city from the cliffs above it. It will not be long, she promised herself over and over again. A war, even an invasion, cannot take more than a few months, and then we can be married. Then she would no longer be simply Alys Marillier, the king's niece, but Alys Beauforte, Duchess of Lonnare. Yet the title mattered very little to her, her heart yearning to be the wife of the man she loved and had loved almost all the days of her life. Excited once more by the prospect of seeing him so very soon, she turned her horse back to the city and the castle, arriving earlier than she had expected in the great stables.
The guard was dismissed with the expectance of her not remaining for long in such a servants' place, and the moment he was gone, Alys slipped back into the stable itself to seek out her mare, sending the boy away once he had removed saddle and bridle from the creature. She wanted the calming influence of some repetitive task, and rubbing her palfrey down offered the perfect such activity. The grooms had removed the destriers from their stalls in preparation for the joust, leaving the stable complex itself unusually quiet for such a time of day. The bustle of the palace was audible, as always, yet it seemed to come from a great distance away, allowing her to make believe that she was not in the great castle of Bannoc Rise, but in Arindale, the ducal seat of Lonnare and soon to be her home. She let herself enjoy the fantasy, her whole attention upon the sweep of the brush in her hand over the warm hide of her palfrey, unaware that she was being watched.
Count Francis Denhelm stood in the door to the stable, covetous eyes raking over the slender beauty who had been denied to him. He was not a man who took rejection well; nor was he a man who respected the boundaries of promise or marriage. He wanted the Lady Alys, and he fully intended to have her, willing or unwilling. Yet now that wanting was mingled with the satisfaction that despoiling her would sour the hopes of the new Duke of Lonnare, a base-born son of a whore who had risen to greatness beyond his deserving. With a smirk on his handsome features, the count pushed from his lean and stepped into the stable, advancing with the stalk of a predator toward his prey.
Like Alys, Charles had risen early that morning, not because he had a lot to do before the time came for the tournament, but because he was feeling anxious, restless, and excited, partly due to the tournament, but mostly due to his betrothal, at long last, to his lady love. How could he sleep when he was so happy he could hardly contain himself? Parting had been difficult, and it had taken both Will and Christian to finally convince the young lovers to turn in, each going to separate beds in separate rooms to spend the night dreaming of each other. Will had reminded Charles that he was going to need his rest if he wanted to do well in the tournament, but he had risen just before dawn, unable to lie still and quiet much longer.
The early part of the day had been spent going over a mountain of paperwork that had been let go since his journey to fetch Lady Alys - letters, requests, records, and accounts - boring stuff that made him wish he'd stayed in bed. Most of it had already been adequately handled by his steward, but as Duke of Lonnare, he wanted to be kept abreast of all the goings on within his borders, and he especially wanted to remain informed regarding the lands neighboring them to the east - that of their enemy Coimbra. He went over most of that while he breakfasted and well into the morning, conferring with his advisors, taking the matter of a dukedom and an impending war seriously. It was late in the morning when word arrived from his betrothed requesting his presence for a short while before the games were to begin and as much as he was hoping for a quick nap, he could not deny her.
Instead of sending word back asking her to meet him in a neutral place, he decided to surprise her by meeting her before the hour was up at the stables where she would have to return her horse before preparing for the tournament.
He had missed her return by just a few minutes, but he was in time to see Denhelm, the unwelcome count, making his way into the stables themselves, his walk alone declaring that there was some woman who had taken his fancy within. It could have been anyone - a servant, a lady - but for the cadence of voices within that followed soon after. Alys' voice, so familiar and recognizable to Charles' ears, rose in anger at having been surprised, overwhelmed by the insistent tone of the man who had intruded where he was not wanted. And she was abruptly cut off by the sickening crack of flesh on flesh. Unwillingly alone with a predator who would not take no for an answer, it seemed that the count had raised his hand to the duke's betrothed, and was likely to go further if he were not prevented.
Charles arrived just in time to see Denhelm enter the stables, unseen by the man as he was some paces behind him. He thought little of it at first, thinking perhaps the man also wanted to go for a ride, but when he heard the sound of voices rising in anger and recognized one of those voices as belonging to Lady Alys, he quickened his step, arriving just in time to see Denhelm raising a hand to Alys, but not in time to prevent it. He was upon the man in an instant, wasting no time and without hesitation, catching the man's hand before he could strike her again and yanking him around to face him, before throwing his fist against the man's jaw, blue eyes blazing with rage.