DeLacey Manor
The Baroness greeted her guests graciously and apologized for the baron's absence due to illness.
Well, even Paris ought to deduce why Baron deLacey isn't here. And that will imply why she hasn't gone in to class; if Sir Justin doesn't go, she can't either.
Yes, Paris has figured out what the baron's illness is. She's had time enough to put the tiny clues together even without asking Rodric outright.
I wasn't sure that a noblewoman's role was so restricted that she couldn't go to court to visit her son without her husband in attendance, but a sometimes- incapacitated husband and rather young children are, in themselves, explanation enough.
The discussion, as Lorraine had indicated, touches on roses, grapes and the deLacey children.
Ewen is the eldest and the heir. I don't think they are important to the story, but he has a sister four years younger, and a brother two years younger than that. (There was another child two years younger than Ewen, but died sometime in early childhood.)
Does Paris now have any sense of how Ewen's mother regards her?
She started out somewhat cold and disapproving...well, six months ago, Paris would have thought she was amazingly gracious, but the girl's increased knowledge of the subtleties of court language showed that she was predisposed against the student lady-knight. However, during the picnic she warmed to her guest, and eventually got her eyes off of Paris' sword. She even, toward the end of the picnic, encouraged Ewen to show Paris the grounds while she and Lorraine sat in the shade, and she smiled at her son. She might not be fully reconciled to her son's current choice, but she was more positive than negative at the end.
During the stroll, Paris returned the red bandanna to Pauolo.
As for the kerchief, I assumed Paris would return it, but I actually wasn't sure. She had plenty of opportunity to give it to Ewen to give to Pauolo, and hadn't. I thought that the fact it reminded her of father might have meant she would keep it.
Paris had considered returning it to Ewen during the last two weeks of training -- but we sorta handwaved them and I wanted to minimize the on-camera soap-opera. She _had_ thought it would be better if the kerchief got returned via Ewen because returning it herself was tatamount to announcing who she was vis-a-vis the vines. Given that the servants already knew, that no longer mattered so I let it happen on camera.
And she ought to apologize for keeping it so long -- which she _did_ for the memories it evoked, both of her father and Ewen's forgiveness.
:)You realize, of course, that Pauolo is going to have the kerchief framed now. :)
Ewen might actually have liked Paris' embarrassment in the vineyard. :-) Paulo was ok, but after more and more of the deLacey tenants showed up to bob at Paris, she'd be shrinking back against Ewen, rather shy for once. This really is something she's never experienced and it wouldn't be like Paris to 'queen it over' these people.
She whispered to him, "I -- didn't think you'd tell anyone where the cuttings came from."
Ewen had his arm around her, nestling her against him. "I didn't," he whispered back. "I only told my mother." He looked around with his charmingly wry smile. "I guess one of the servants overheard us and told the others." He swallowed a moment, and smiled at her. "They think you're rather special."
"But it's you they should..." Paris looked up and realized just how close he was. "Oh," Paris moved a couple of steps away, saw another beaming servant drop a curtsey, and moved back -- not quite as close, very like a toy pantin on a string. Steady, girl, something inside whispered. She looked into Ewen's face earnestly, "Really, Ewen, it is you who is special. You were the one who worried so about them, who was so concerned for their crafts and livelihood. If you had not, I would never have known, never have thought to ask for the cuttings."
She could see his arm begin to move toward her again, and then stop. It hung uncomfortably at his side, wanting to comfort her, but realizing that it shouldn't. "Concern didn't do anything for them," he said softly, his eyes intent on her. "It was you that brought magic into their lives. Or, if not magic," and the arm finally found something to do, plucking a small bunch of bursting ripe grapes from a nearby vine, holding them out to her in the palm of his hand. "If not magic, then life. These grapes." He placed them in her hand and swallowed. "I don't think any of them have ever seen such a woman of such steel and fire."
Paris' breath caught. "You are the only one who calls me that. And you did so long before I accepted my purpose. How did you know? What more can you see -- about the Tarot?" Paris' eyes searched his face for several long moments.
He looked back at her, returning her gaze. "I don't know any thing about the Tarot. And precious little, only what I can see, about you. I wish I could see the future," he said quietly. "I wish I could do something other than be concerned."
She looked down at the grapes in her hand. "By your concern you became my first teacher in what being a noble really means, Ewen." Paris smiled up at him. "How do these vines grow now? You spoke of frequent harvests, so I must assume that the Empress' virtue still is at work here...?" [Given you said that they don't get much time to talk, I suspect that something like this needs to be said to get the track into more ordinary lines.]
He, too, struggled a moment, returning his voice to an even and forcefully cheery note. They began to move along the row of vines. "The harvests have grown less frequent. The time between them doubles with each planting of cuttings. We've actually had to stop doing more planting because we have as much land under cultivation as we can manage." He looked at another of the approaching peasants, and with a smile pointed at a ripe bush at her side. "Would you pick a small bunch of those, please," he asked her quietly. As she did, he waved to the peasant, and whispered again to her. "Let me then teach you another part of being noble." He smiled as the young peasant girl approached, a fourteen year old in her Sevenday best, tanned hands and face showing strong peasant stock. "Kalia," he said to her as she curtseyed. "How is your father?"
The girl kept herself lowered in a half curtsey. "He is getting better, Lord. Eating solid food now. Thank you, Lord."
Ewen put his hand in the small of Paris' back, pushing her forward. "Kalia, this is Miss Paris." He whispered to Paris, "give her the grapes."
Kalia's curtsey was even deeper to Paris. "Oh, Lady Paris, I've, I mean...I mean, thank you." Her eyes were big and round as she looked at the offered bunch of grapes. "Oh. I mean." Paris had to gesture again before the girl would take them, her hand shivering a little. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." She curtseyed each time, in time with her speaking.
"Thank you, Kalia," Ewen said smoothly. "Why don't you go take those to your father, since he's eating solid food now?" The girl backed up two steps, curtseying at each one, and then turned to run. She held the grapes clasped in both hands under her chin, slowing her a bit as she ran. Ewen, smiling, waved at Paulo, who was not far away. "Bring a basket of grapes, will you, and help me with the names," he asked the older farm chief as Kalia reached the nearest group of peasants. It seemed but a moment later that there was another of the farm hands there, Ewen greeting him by name, introducing Paris to him, and having her pass them some grapes from Paulo's basket. He knew the name, without Paulo's prompting, of two of every three of them; and the ones he missed were younger ones, and he exclaimed over how tall they had grown since he last saw them. "Keep smiling. Treat each one as well as the first," he whispered to Paris as they worked their way down the line.
As it became clear what Ewen had in mind, Paris found herself too close to him again. Uncomfortable, frightened of the height at which he seemed to have placed her here. But, as he remembered the names and spoke with apparent warmth to these his people, she looked into the faces directed at her. Why -- the wide eyes and open mouths -- were familiar! She'd been a grubby farm girl staring at a passing knight like that. Had she not looked just that way when Prince William first spoke to her? Awestruck and almost terrified? But He'd seen her as someone real, someone to smile at and speak to, and -- eventually -- to trust. Ewen knew that a lord should be real. Ewen knew these as real people too. Paris' shyness melted into warmth as she handed over the first fragile bunch of grapes with a genuine smile. And so Paris listened, looked, and tried to meet each pair of eyes and touch each pair of hands in such a way that they would be real to her as well.
It did not take long to greet each of them, old and young alike, and empty Paulo's basket. She could hear snatches of conversation in the distance, "she's so nice!" and "she's so beautiful!" Ewen turned to Paulo and thanked him, and guided Paris back to the gazebo where waited Lorraine and his mother. As they moved, Paris looked at him with glowing eyes. "They love you, Ewen; you hold their trust."
He had extended an arm for her, to walk her back. He was quiet nearly until they reached the gazebo, when he finally spoke softly. "Now, if only I can earn your trust as well." Any reply she might have made was forestalled when Lorraine's laugh split the air. "There you two are!" Chattering gaily, she swept Paris away to make her good-byes.
Paris was rather quiet on the return trip. Ewen's comment had piercingly hurt... and Paris was going to worry at it, trying to figure out why.
[GM: Well, that sort of surprises me. He, of course, was going after the "love and trust" line, and using the lesser to represent the former. Why did it hurt?]
[S: Yes, the implication of 'love and trust' was there ... which only gives a sense of poignancy to the comment, given that it is a very gentle reminder that he is still 'waiting for her'. The hurt comes -- well, it hurt the moment I read it so Paris must have felt the same. She _can't_ yet say she loves him, because -- while she _does_ in at least the same sense she loves Lorraine and Rhori and even Calais -- it might not mean what he wants it to mean ... and she does not _think_ her feelings have the quality she associates with Love-with-a-capital-L. But then, Paris thinks too much. And may have a fantasy attitude towards Love-with-a-capital-L.
It hurt because trust has a very different implication from love. It's a reminder of all the thoughts Lady duGryphon has said _not_ to punish him for .. and which the dreadful quality in his voice when he said "I'm not like that" (re: Sir Rathburn) indicated he had not forgotten. As well, his more recent comment earlier on this walk, when he said he knew "precious little, only what I can see, about you" -- indicated that she has been keeping far too much of herself, her hopes, fears, ambitions, possibly even the Tarot adventures -- and definitely her struggles with herself about him -- to herself. All that, she realizes, gives indication that she does not trust him, and yet, a moment before, she would have said he was her best friend along with Lorraine and Calais. More than the other two, Ewen shares what she will do with her life and the ideals that prompt that path. To her that bond between them is very precious. More so now that she knows the Order will not be the Fairy Tale she had come to think it would be. So to be told that she does not trust him is like a knife slipping softly between her ribs. She can't help but examine it to see if it is true.]
After rather a period of silence aboard the coach as Paris wrestled with her own confusion, she turned to her friend. "Lorraine, how does one convince a boy that you really do trust him?" She could see the question and encouragement on the other girl's face. Paris gave a little sigh and a matching smile. "As your mother would no doubt say, I should speak more clearly and explain myself."
Lorraine giggled. "No, say it more like this. 'Speak more clearly and explain yourself,'" she intoned in an expressive mimic of her mother that brought an unexpected smile to Paris' face.
Paris gathered her thoughts together. "This was a delightful afternoon. Ewen introduced me to many of his tenants. They admire him so much. And so do I. He is so kind and noble, honourable and patient. I can't imagine having any better friends than you and he are to me. Rodric and Cordelia are pretty wonderful too, but -- you and Ewen are -- really special.
"I usually have a wonderful time with Ewen. He is -- a great comrade, a delightful companion. And then, suddenly, I find myself terribly -- unsettled -- by his presence -- wanting to be close and -- and afraid -- I won't know what to do with myself -- if I let myself -- be -- too close -- to anyone. And -- he must be able to read that and so he thinks -- I -- don't trust him. He said he wished he could earn my trust. But I do! If I know nothing else about my feelings, I know that I do trust him!"
Throughout, Lorraine had been smiling, but at the end she looked a little concerned, and gazed out the small carriage window for a bit before replying. "You know, you really are pretty amazing." She looked back to Paris. "If I were in your shoes I'd be scared to death. But you keep on going." She shook her head. "There's so many things you're asking about, I don't know where to start. Ewen's the first boy that you've been 'unsettled by his presence,' isn't he?" Lorraine is getting quite good at mimicking voices, Paris realized. "You know, that's the real reason for the rules at the dance. It's so you can fall into and out of love with someone, and not embarrass yourself completely. Either when you fall in or out." She paused again. "And, it's like anything else -- riding a horse, moving in a dance -- you might not do it right the first time. You probably won't know how to feel, until you see how you feel. And you don't trust yourself to let go enough control to find out how you feel."
Paris nodded. That was exactly how she felt. Not wanting to give up the tight control -- for fear of having everything blow up in her face. Like the orcs at the pool in Jouet. It might be too overwhelming.
Lorraine sighed. "Yes, he sees that you don't trust yourself to be near him. But he sees it as not trusting him, you're right there. It's really hard, I have to keep reminding myself that you were brought up in a completely different world. Here, you're just as noble as anyone else, but... I'd guess that most of the farmers you talked to today didn't talk to you as easily as you and I are talking now? But unless he reminds himself of where you came from.." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not saying this well. You still come across as a little afraid of talking to all of us. Like I said, I'd be scared to death if I were you. So the fact that you can do this at all is pretty amazing."
She looked out the window again, and after a quiet moment sighed. "It can take a while, but he'll eventually stop trying. It'll be like Rodric, he'll trust you in a fight, I suppose, be a friend, that sort of thing, and the pressure will be off." She looked out the window some more. "I guess that's one of the more important things parents have to do, pick a husband you can fall in love with. They probably know a lot more about it than I do."
This sat like a lump in Paris' stomach. Maybe 'normal' would never be something she could have. Some part of her started to struggle, to climb out of the spiraling darkness this conversation was not relieving.
Lorraine shook herself to get rid of the mood she had fallen into, and turned to Paris with a wicked, impish smile. "So, tell me about the walk. Everything that was said."
"The walk? We spoke of the grapes -- and how worried he'd been about his tenant's livelihood when the City came -- and he said -- some very pretty things to me." Paris smiled softly. "Then he started introducing me, and I got a little scared," Paris looks at Lorraine ruefully. "I do, you know. Lots. Just like you expect me to. And I got too close to him and he had his arm around me and I pulled away. But -- his tenants, his people -- look to him so. It was really wonderful to watch. He had me give them each a bunch of grapes -- though they must work with the plants every day. I -- realized then that someday their grandchildren would tell a fairytale about him, I could almost hear it in my head. I wonder if it would make him laugh if I told him."
"Sooo," Lorraine said, leaning in, eyes intent and a smile on her face. "What pretty things did he say? He didn't use 'Fair Flower for a Fair Lady' did he?"
"No," Paris' voice was soft. "He called me a woman of steel and fire. He's used those words before, but I didn't understand how much they represented my place in the Tarot. And he doesn't know the Tarot. He amazes me sometimes."
Lorraine paused a moment. "And I bet he'd like to hear the fairytale you have in mind."
Still softly. "Then I will tell him sometime. I could disappear off the face of the earth this moment and those people would tell tales of him forever, I think." A smiled played softly over Paris' face.
Lorraine looked at her friend with an odd intensity and matching smile. "C'mon, girl. Out with it."
Paris blushed a little. "I'm not a bard, not like Anton. But I liked tales and used to wonder how they'd get started. And this one would be a bit like others -- which is why I think it'll be the sort of thing told many, many years from now when people have forgotten what really happened. They'll tell stories about the White Tower too, maybe with the enchanted princess sleeping there. And they'll turn our duke into a prince to rescue her." She paused. "Ewen's people will remember him as a prince too, and they'll remember the vine cuttings, but everything else will get turned into a different story. Stories of the land don't go with Magic City stories. And people will forget that they came together. Some winter after an exceptionally good harvest some old crotchety white beard will say, 'But you shoulda seen what it was like when good prince Ewen ruled these lands. Nothing grew. Nothing! Why? Oh, it musta be a time o' great drought. An' all the vines, the orchards, the fields, they shriveled up and died an' the people here were starvin'. But the good prince, he cared; he'd come talk with the farmers, visit the one well where there was still a bit o' water, an' try to see what he could do." Paris paused, her eyes focused in the elsewhere. "An' one night aft'angelus, Prince Ewen was still there, looking at all the bareness, feelin' so badly about it, after all his people had hie'd home, when the most wretched of hags approached the poor little well. Seein' how weak she was, Prince Ewen got off his horse an' drew up what he could o' scant water for the old grannie. An' she drank from his hand. Then, while he was puttin' the bucket back down, her thanks turned from a wav'ry faint cackle to somethin' musical. A fey of fire and light stood where the grannie had been. An' she told the prince that -- because of his good heart -- the curse would be lifted from his land. An' then the magic lady vanished an' in the bucket were three slivers of grape vine. Prince Ewen, he sent for his vinemaster, an' they planted those cuttings in the setting sun. An' next morn at angelus the fields were full to bursting. That -- now that -- was a time of great harvest!" Self-conscious again, Paris smiled self-deprecatingly. "That's the sort of tale people of the land will someday tell. Yet I will never be able to convince Ewen that his gifts of heart and hand are far more lasting than the bits of magic that seem to make me 'special' to him."
Lorraine had sat there fascinated by the story, and smiled as Paris came to an end. "An' then good Prince Ewen," she said, trying to duplicate Paris' storyteller, "ha'n seen the full fields and his people happy, felt a yearnin' in 'im. He lept onto his charger and set off ta find the fey woman who'd fixed his fields and stolen his heart." She brought her voice back to her own. "And I don't know how that one ends. But that's part of all the stories, too."
Paris laughed softly. "Only in the lais, Lorraine. The people of the land don't concern themselves with that. After all, to seek love amongst the fey is another story in itself -- and usually bad magic where the land is concerned. But if a troubadour was to make my little fancy acceptable for court, yes, the story would have to spin that way. Else the fine ladies," she grinned, "would be disappointed and the troubadour would get a poor supper."
Lorraine: "You said Ewen was handsome, noble, etc. But what I want to know is -- do you think he's cute?"
"Cute?" Paris shook her head in amused puzzlement. "Lorraine, he's enough above the common run that I don't understand why someone really nice didn't make him hers long ago. But then," the rueful expression again, "I don't know how to let go enough control to relax with anyone, so who am I to talk?"
Lorraine raised one eyebrow, but this was an unconscious mimic of her mother. "Who are you to talk? You're the one he chose to invite to the picnic, that's who you are to talk." The eyebrow relaxed and she smiled, then forcibly exaggerated Paris' rueful expression until Paris had no choice but to smile as well. "And, anyway, whether or not he's cute depends on whether or not there are butterflies in your tummy when you see him. And that, friend, is something only you are an expert on."
Paris, with wonder: "Then he's cute. 'Cause there is a flutter when he touches me or I think about kissing -- or anything like that. But mostly, when I forget about me, he's a warm, comfortable feeling. Like being wrapped in an old quilt in front of a cheerful fireplace. He's my friend and I'd hate to lose that." She paused. "I mean, what if the flutters are just because I'm afraid, because I don't know what love is supposed to feel like ... and I use him, to practice on? What sort of friend would I be? Maybe the flutters are just -- just because -- it's thrilling to know that somebody wants you? And it may not matter who the somebody is. Ewen matters! And I don't want to be stupid or -- eager for the wrong sort of experience -- and hurt him. But I hurt him anyway, don't I?"
"And made him feel wonderful! I told you about him keeping Rod up all night, didn't I?" Lorraine settled back in her seat. "What would be worse, 'practicing' on him and finding out he was wrong for you, or not trying, when he was the right one?"
"So -- you think -- I should walk out with him -- after dancing? Even if I don't know..?"
Her forehead wrinkled slightly. "How else will you find out? Didn't you ever have to try something to see if you could do it? You couldn't have always done everything perfectly the first time."
"I've never done anything perfectly the first time," Paris admitted. "And usually not the second or the third either." She paused and her voice dropped lower, quieter. "I -- guess -- I thought -- love -- was different. Like a magic spell - poof! -- and Love arrives on a silver platter?" She smiled wryly. "I must seem very foolish. So many things are -- different -- than I first thought. Hoped. Playing -- at love -- is a notion -- that comes hard to me. But -- I know you've told me all this before -- and I didn't want to believe it then. But I am no less mixed up now than I was then. So -- whatever I've been thinking -- doesn't seem to be helping. So I ought to believe your experience, your advice...."
"So, tell me more about this Attilla. I didn't see him at church this morning."
"I do not think Attilla's people have quite the same beliefs we do. The others say that he's moved closer to the Adventurers Guild and gone 'back out' for a 'bit of action.' City life isn't something his people care much for -- and he was even trying to get out of a place a small as Dungeon when we hooked up with him. But, Lorraine," Paris actually giggled, "I do not think he's the least bit -- cute. Especially after having listened to all his stories when he thought I was a boy!"
Her eyes glinted and flashed as she leaned in. "No!" she cried in mock horror. "Tell me!"
"Lorraine!" Paris' eyebrows went up and her expression was a mix of consternation, shock and amusement. "I shouldn't have listened if I could've gotten out of it. Attilla's people -- at least the guys -- seem to like the, um, gory and, um, graphic. They seem to find it -- exciting. I'm not sure why, 'cause they know as well as we do that battle is scary and ugly -- and evil magics are even scarier and uglier. It makes me feel a little sick to my stomach. But - maybe - maybe it's just a way to remind themselves of how precious it is to enjoy life and goodness and beauty."
[Now, this is one point where we can drop off camera... however, I do know that girls enjoy dirty jokes as much as boys. :) Well, perhaps different ones, but I suspect there are a lot of hushed whispers, giggles, and a slightly red-faced Paris by the end of the ride. Lorraine knows one or two Attilla didn't... :)
"Picnic" copyright 1999 S.Knowles & P.Shea. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.