A Loom of Years

Seventh Weaving
@Anne E. Fraser 2006

 It wasn’t all fighting, or trying to stop fighting.  Blaine and Olivia occasionally entertained.  The Council of European Princes had decided that just having council meetings was a bit boring and gave the Princes no opportunity to know each other socially, so a vampire ball was hosted once a century.  The onerous of hosting the ball was switched from prince to prince.  So far, it had not yet been Great Britain’s turn; the next one coming up, to be held in 1525, would be at Claude’s chateau in the Loire.

Olivia felt that was too long to wait for a party, so they were hosting one for just the vampires and other supernaturals of the British Isles.  Their newly built manor house in Wiltshire had been thrown open for the guests. Music, food, dancing, light and laughter filled the great hall and other rooms.

Olivia was laughing with some Scottish chieftains, recalling the incident now several years in the past when the witches on the moors had fought against what they felt was a vampire invasion, and the strange old witch had cursed the vampires.  Things had been smoothed over with the magic-users since; Blaine even had a Scottish witch in the court now.   Olivia  was showing off the grand fireplace and talking excitedly of the hunt possibilities nearby.

Blaine, circulating, smiled as he overheard her.  His bloodthirsty darling.  Since the Council compact meant vampires should no longer consider humans their prey, Olivia hunted nearly anything else that moved. The chase didn’t really interest Blaine, though he often went along just to be able to ride and escape being Prince for a few hours.

Two Nameless Ones, members of that odd warrior race, buttonholed him as he passed and wanted to talk about fortifications.  Manor homes were still relatively new to England; the Nameless were used to castles.  You couldn’t really defend a manor house from serious invaders. The Nameless found this unconscionable.

As he was reassuring them that he had other defences than walls, Blaine heard a scuffle at the door.  Some party-crasher, no doubt.  He drifted over, the muscle men in tow, to see what the fuss was.

There was a wolf at the door.  It was ragged, starved, paw pads worn to almost nothing, yet its eyes as it looked up at the Prince glittered with intelligence.  It shook off the two vampires trying to hold it back and raised a paw towards Blaine.

“Sorry, old fellow,” Blaine said sympathetically. “I don’t speak wolf.  You’ll have to turn.”

For of course the creature was a werewolf. Only it seemed he was unable to turn back to human form.  He was exhausted.

Olivia, attracted by the fact that a lot of people now seemed to be moving towards the front entranceway, came to see what all the fuss was about.

“Brengy,” she called out to the pathetic creature at the door.  She knew the wolves, all of them, even in their animal forms.  “Brengy Keane.  Brengy Keane.  Brengy Keane, I call upon you to return to your true self.”

Those around the panting wolf stood back and a servant hurried to find a robe or blanket.  Everyone present knew that if you called a werewolf by its true name three times, it would return to human form.  Heads turned politely.  It was not a good thing to watch the transformation.  Blaine and Olivia did, though, her brow furrowed in concern for the wolf, his in speculation about what dire news had brought the lad here in such a state.

The wolf flopped onto its side and began to twitch, whining and whimpering. It stretched, blurred and undulated in very unpleasant ways.  Fur disappeared.  The muzzle shrank and the teeth reformed into a different shape and sizes. The ears changed shape and location on a skull that had also changed shape.  The hind legs shot out, acquired knees, lost paws.  The front legs became arms.  The tail vanished.

The naked man who now lay on the stone floor did not look much better than the wolf.  A fur robe was quickly thrown over him and he was helped to his feet and then to a bench.

“Get him some soup,” Blaine quietly ordered an underling.

“Please, my Prince,” said the werewolf, looking up.  “I bring news.”

“So I surmised, Brengy,” Blaine replied.  “But it can wait until you have eaten and rested.”

“It is for you and your consort only, my Prince,” Brengy continued, as if Blaine had not spoken.

“Yes, I do understand,” Blaine said.  “Eat, Brengy, the news can wait.”

Soup had been brought, but the werewolf ignored it.  “Please, my Prince, it is urgent.”

Blaine and Olivia looked at each other.  Then at all their guests.

“You will have to excuse us,” Blaine said, hiding a sigh.  “Please, continue to enjoy yourselves.  We shall return.”

He and Olivia, waving off servants and underlings, helped Brengy out of the great hall and to the nearest small, quiet room where they could be private.  There they eased him down into a chair though neither of them sat.

“There has been a coup attempt in Italy,” Brengy said, struggling for breath and the words.

Olivia looked dismayed, though she quickly hid it.  She adored Carmine, and he her.  They seemed to understand each other.  “Carmine?” she asked, keeping all emotion out of her voice.

“Survived,” Brengy replied.

Surely Blaine did not hear his wife breathe a sigh of relief.  No, of course not.

“Then how is this such important news that you nearly kill yourself to bring it to us?” Blaine asked.  “Carmine has survived assassination attempts before.  He makes rather a habit of it, the silly blighter.”

“My Prince... m’lady...” Brengy tried to sit up straighter, but slumped.   “The consort...”

“Ruffina?” Slow horror was creeping over Olivia’s features.  “No, don’t tell me...”

Blaine put out a hand to steady her.  To comfort her.  Brengy was nodding.

“I am sorry, m’lady,” he mumbled.  “Ruffina is dead.”

“No.” Olivia looked at Blaine.  Consorts together, she and Ruffina had been friends.  “No, she can’t be.”

But the werewolf messenger was pressing on, despite Olivia’s dismay.  “Yes, m’lady.  Dead by Carmine’s own hand.”

Blaine stared. Olivia sat down abruptly.  “If you are lying, Brengy, or if this is some ill jest, then you die.  By my hand.”  Her voice was rock steady and cold as ice.

“She was the one behind the assassination, m’lady, my Prince,” the werewolf licked his lip as if even he could not believe his own words.  “She was awaiting Prince Carmine in his chambers with a sword.  He beheaded her before she could do it to him.”

“No,” said Olivia, still in that voice so unlike her own.  “No, I don’t believe it.  Ruffina loves Carmine.  She would never, ever do anything to harm him.”

“The evidence is very convincing, m’lady,” said Brengy.  “I heard it directly from your spy in Carmine’s court.”

“And Carmine?” Blaine asked.  “How is he reacting?”

“He has purged the court, my Prince.  I am sorry.  Megwen is dead. I barely escaped Italy with my life.”

Blaine closed his eyes. He felt Olivia seek his hand.  Megwen had been one of his fledglings, sent to Carmine’s court on some pretext or other to serve as a spy.  Brengy was her contact and go-between. All the courts were full of spies, and every Prince knew it and usually knew who they were.  It was all a vast game they played.  Until something like this made it no longer a game.

“She knew the risks,” Olivia said quietly.

All spies to foreign courts were volunteers, and knew they were at the mercy of the Prince they spied on.

“So did Ruffina,” Blaine replied.

Olivia shook her head. “I will never, ever believe it of her,” she said flatly.

“The evidence so far seems quite irrefutable, darling.”

“I will not believe it.”

“Come, Brengy,” Blaine changed the subject rather than get into an argument with Olivia in this mood.  “You have told us your news.  We’ll put you to bed and have Hawys look after you.”  Hawys was the alpha female werewolf of the pack.

“I am sorry the news is so ill, my Prince,” Brengy said.  He had to let Blaine help him to his feet.

“Not your fault, my lad.  How terrible.  I shall have to write Carmine.”

“Will there be another emergency council meeting?” Olivia asked, her voice rather dull.  “Or do Consorts not matter enough?”

“Of course Consorts matter, darling,” Blaine assured her.  “But when one tries to assassinate her Prince... I don’t know. It’s never happened before.”

She shot him a look that was pure Olivia, and he secretly rejoiced to see the cold fury and disbelief gone.  “Are you inferring it could happen again? Perhaps in this household?”

“No, of course not.  You wouldn’t try to behead me with a sword.  You’d do it nice and quietly with a silver dagger in my heart so I couldn’t get blood all over the place.”

“Damned straight,” Olivia replied.

_______________

There was, indeed, another emergency council meeting, this time in Switzerland.  Yves presided over it tentatively.  Neither Blaine nor Olivia had ever been able to quite warm up to the Swiss Prince; he was far to eager to ally with whom he saw as the strongest Prince at the moment.  That meant he couldn’t be trusted. It was hard to blame him, really, or Nils of Scandinavia who was much the same way; their countries were small and without much power.  But still...

There were other consorts by this time. Yves, in fact, had one, a quiet Swiss woman named Katja. And there was  Lothar of Germany, a rat-eyed little idiot fully deserving of Ingrid in bed.  And of course Olivia.  Only three, though. Either none of the other Council members had been able to find someone suitable, or they weren’t interested in sharing their power.  Blaine personally suspected that Kalonice of Greece was having far too much fun sleeping with handsome young men to get herself a consort. Hans was probably too tired.

But all eyes were on Carmine.  He exhibited no grief or regret.  Once the Council had assembled and demanded an explanation from him, he told the story of what had happened that night calmly, without embellishments.

The villa had been full of assassins.  Several had assaulted him on the stairs.  He had taken care of them, gone down to his rooms, seen a beheaded corpse in Ruffina’s clothing and assumed the worst... there’d been a disguised assassin in the room, he had attacked and beheaded that one in the belief it was a man who had just slain Ruffina.  But it had been she, herself, intent on assassinating her Prince.  His own consort, a traitor.

“Impossible,” spat Rodrigo of Spain.  He had been listening with growing impatience; his hands were curled into white-knuckled fists.

“I don’t believe it,” said Olivia flatly.

Carmine looked at her, not at Rodrigo.  “Olivia,” he said.  Was there almost a note of pleading there?  “It is true.  She was one of the assassins; most likely the one behind the entire plot.”

“You’re lying,” Rodrigo accused him.  “You murdered her in cold blood, then staged a purge of your court to make it appear there were assassins.”

“I have witnesses,” Carmine replied, now looking at Rodrigo.  He turned to Blaine and Olivia.  “I believe one of them made his way back home to your court?”

“Yes,” Blaine replied, raising an eyebrow. Had Brengy been _allowed_ to escape Italy, in order to be a witness to Carmine’s testimony?  The Italian Prince played games so deep they were often on another board entirely.  “He reported to us what had happened.  It does seem to be true that Ruffina tried to kill Carmine.”

“No,” Olivia was nearly begging Carmine. “It’s not true. You know it’s not true, Carmine.  She loved you.”

He reached out and touched her hair.  “I am sorry to shatter your illusions, cara.”

Olivia’s eyes shimmered and Carmine quickly dropped his hand, apparently horrified at the prospect of tears.

“This is nonsense,” said Rodrigo, and stood up. “I am leaving.”

“Sit back down,” Claude told him, speaking up for the first time.  He nodded to Yves.  “Pardonnez-moi for chairing in your place, Yves.”

“You are out of order, Rodrigo,” Yves said.  “Sit down.  You have something to say, Claude?”

“For the record,” Claude nodded at Yves’ retainers, then at the Council in general, “I am having trouble believing this testimony myself.  Yet what would Carmine gain by lying to us? I have heard enough news and rumours from Italy to know that this was not simply murder in a jealous rage or fit of pique; there was an assassination attempt that night in the Villa Medici.  Ruffina died during that attempt.  We must accept Carmine’s version of things, however much it pains us to do so.”  He looked sympathetically at Olivia.“Le monde n'est pas toujours aussi joli ou poli que nous voudrions qu'il soit, ma chere. Parfois nous devons accepter une réalité plus sinistre que nous convient.”*

Olivia bowed her head, felt Blaine’s hand clasp hers in support and sympathy.  “C’est vrai, Claude,” she admitted.

“Pah,” said Rodrigo.  “I move for a vote of deposition of Italy’s Prince.”

“On what grounds, Rodrigo?” Yves asked, fighting to take back control of the meeting.

“Murder.”

“I second the motion,” said Ingrid.  She’d been quietly smiling throughout the proceedings.

“I must call for a vote,” Yves sighed.  “All in favour of deposing Carmine?”

Only Rodrigo, Ingrid and Monique voted in favour; all others, including Nils and Yves, against.

“Motion denied,” said Yves.  “Carmine, you have the Council’s sympathy on the death of your consort. If there is nothing else?  Meeting adjourned.”

The Princes rose, looking solemn.  There was not a lot of talking and no laughter or gossip.  Zalyina of Russia came up to Olivia, squeezed her hands and kissed her cheek.  She looked almost as sad as Olivia felt, but then Zalyina often looked sad.  She, too, had fought rebellion and assassination attempts in the past. Kalonice, who was hard to oppress, gave Olivia a hug.

Rodrigo had left the moment the Council meeting was adjourned. The others could practically see the thundercloud trailing after him.

“What is his problem?” Blaine asked Claude, who shrugged.

Ingrid cast a long, inscrutable look at Carmine, who was talking quietly with Hans, and then followed Rodrigo out, Lothar trailing after her looking smug.

“A moment, Hans,” Carmine said, and came over to the British couple.  “Olivia.”  He kissed her hand.  “I am sorry to have caused you distress.”

“I am sorry to have doubted you, Carmine,” she replied.  “I still... I still find it difficult to believe that Ruffina would ever harm you.  Or you her.”

Carmine’s expression was impossible to read.  “We must all learn to live with what happened that night, Olivia,” he said.  He nodded to Blaine.  “Hold her tightly, Blaine.  Never let her go.”  With that cryptic advice, he went back to Hans.


*The world is not always as pretty or polite as we would like it to be, my dear.  Sometimes we must accept a grimmer reality than suits us..

 

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