His Italian is fair, though the accent is crooked enough that it may be half of why the man before her says so little. Surely in combination with his looks, it can be no reassurance. He has washed his face and hands, spent an hour in the evening working the dirt from under his fingernails, and has combed his hair as neatly as he knows to and concealed the worn edges of his doublet under a sturdy cloak with a lovely braided edge, but there can be no denying some sharpish quality there. Too much limb and too narrow a face coupled with too easy a hand at the pommel of the very fine sword at his hip.
But surely the man can't be as unsuitable as he looks standing there in the marbled villa. After all, he has been hired for the work by people invested in her care and wears the second place ring recently won in the torneo there on his first finger. And he stands straight enough. No uneasy shifting or faltering, though she is exceptionally pleasant to the eye and he has had little work in the way of minding women.
("Could you make this ride and see to it that no harm comes to her?" had been the question, not "Would you stand in front of her and see how she cares for you?")
"The road should be easy. It's been a warm spring."
"Yes, I am told that taking the path now, would be a fair trip."
Her hand settled on the greyhound's back. Laying ringed fingers in even spaces to curve across its soft coat. Its head turned at the tone of a new voice, ears flicking before it moved back to settle in her lap, sniffing at her hand to look for a treat, perhaps. Something sweet as the animal went to lip and lick his mistress' fingers.
"Forgive me, it seems I have not been given the name to who will as the length of my shadow, these coming days."
If he's forgotten himself by not leading with an introduction, he must not be bothered. Though really: she doesn't much have need for his name, so why assume that she'd care to have it? "Marcoulf de Ricart, Lady."
The sound of the dog's tongue as it licks its small chops fills the quiet that lingers in the space after. Standing there, Marcoulf seems to expect something of her. Perhaps more questions or some direction that he should speak to her driver or first maid or whomsoever she means to take along with her. There are undoubtedly details in place in which he has no say at all, but will be expected to find a place to fit his arm. Were she a man he might ask her Do you expect much trouble on the journey, but she likely knows little of it and his guess is, No. Their party is sure to be well armed to discourage petty thieves and too specific that anyone with delusions of a grand prize would risk what might follow after should she come to harm.
What that makes him, he doesn't know. Only that Lords and Ladies often prefer something to amuse themselves with while traveling and the man who had seen him brought on had come to a competition to find him and not to the mercantile houses where there are plenty of able and reputable swords to be had.
"Congratulations," he says after a pause. "With regard to the happy reason to go to Naples."
"Marcoulf de Ricart." She says it neither warmly nor cooly. Just held in her mouth. Some men might destroy themselves for just the chance of hearing her name spoken by them in even half so much acknowledgement.
But not him it seems.
It is after he speaks the second time - that her hand lifts, gesturing him closer to her with a sweep of her fingers and curl of her wrist. Letting him come closer to her. "It will be a pleasant diversion from Rome. Have you travelled the paths there before?"
She has been given many assurances as to his skill. But skill did not make up everything of the hours and hours upon the road. She would be expected to ride, which she did not mind, given that she had assurances of some rest between them. Even if he proved to be dull company, he might tell her if the scenery would be pleasant.
Here at last is some mark of hesitation. His hand turns at the pommel of the fine sword and though his attention doesn't leave her it shifts uneasily. It's not at all like a stray dog being coaxed in for some small morsel - there's no evidence of hungry nipping teeth or the skittishness of expecting to be kicked -, and entirely like a boy doing some unfamiliar calculation. Eventually, Marcoulf crosses the ten long paces across the gleaming marble floor at her behest. He answers as he comes along:
"Twice between here and there, though I've made my way from it more." Lots of work to be had out of Naples. He draws his hand from the sword as he nears, hooking his fingers at the knot of his wrapped cloak instead. "What would you like to know about it?"
She waits until he is close, waits until she is sure he is stopped before her, looking at her and at long last, La Bella Farnese lifts her gaze from the pup in her hands to the skittish animal in front of her. Holds him frank in her gaze, refusing to let him turn away from it, lower from it. Holding him in wide and blue eyes.
"Will it be a beautiful journey, or will we find nothing but mud and hills?"
He doesn't waver again. Not really. Being looked at, even by the Italy's most treasured beauty, doesn't trouble him so much as being invited to stand closer in a place where there's no reason to. It won't be so on the road, he thinks, but here in her lovely villa the proximity is unsettling.
Not that it shows in his face or the sloped line of his shoulders. He meets her eyes naturally enough, thumb absently tracing the knot of fabric at his shoulder. "If this weather holds, the only trouble I can imagine we'll find on the road will be if you don't care for blooming things. The road will be dirty of course, but the land around it should be lovely enough. More so once we reach the coast."
This is poor conversation, he thinks. What could he say that she might want to hear? Does she wish to know of Naples, or is all her curiosity for the land between here and there?
"Have you never been to Naples, Signora?" Maybe those are close enough.
Her hands move again, this time it is to pick up the dog who dozes and put him to the ground. It rouses the beast letting him bark and his tail to wag before his trainer - whistles for him, beckoning for the dog to return to him. She follows it for a moment before she turns back. Now, she stands to join him. Gathering up the crush of silk and wool that makes up the bulk of her dress, embroidered at the hems to break up the block strong colours or pink and yellow. Taking it up in one hand to keep it out of the way of soft leather shoes. That unlike the clip of his boots are quiet on the marble.
It is there, that instead of the order of station that dictates so much, she offers him her hand for him to take. "Nor have I travelled so far outside of Rome, before. You must forgive me, it seems I look for the assurance of what I might find if you will be so kind as to indulge me with your tales."
There's a step back, but that's for the dog as it shakes itself out and wags it's long spindly tail between them. When she rises, he's still enough. There's certainly no flinching. After all, La Belle Farnese can do what she pleases (and who), and who is he to refuse her?
Though he's fully capable of being bewildered. The look he gives her hand is as confused as it is appalled (thank you, Father, that he remembered to scrub under his fingernails), but after a too long flicker of hesitation he accepts her small, soft hand across his rough palm. He does not close his fingers. However, his arm is sturdy enough this his hand is yet supportive and though it's clear he had no idea how to walk with a Lady, he certainly knows the walking part is key. There's something meant to be done with his spare hand, he thinks, but cannot for the life of him recall ever seeing a man and woman wall together in his life though he knows he had seen his fair share.
No matter. Surely she knows what she's signed herself up for. Marcoulf clears his throat and guides Italy's most treasured woman by the hand the length of her own veranda.
"Then I'll say that the ride is straight forward and the road is as good as these things can be." Muddy and full of holes, but horses will make simple enough work of it. " And that the coastline is good and that you'll find plenty to do there if the happy occassion doesn't take your full attention." Women like poetry and words that make pictures, don't they? "The sea is very blue there and the city is nearly as white as Rome, only its built on its port and so is all ships and trade and every great room has been painted by the best hands on the continent."
A pause. A confession: "I don't know the place like you will."
Edited (This dialogue was bothering me lmfao) 2018-04-03 14:27 (UTC)
Her face turns even if her steps do not falter as they stroll. Yes, they were different. Her fingers were soft, unmarred, in his. Rubbed with oils and milk of a morning. By contrast, his were steady, sure, clean certainly in that they were marred with their work.
But she did not find she minded. She had felt Cesare's hands when he had embraced her and Lucrezia in his victories. Felt how a lifetime of papers had left Rodrigo's dried smooth. Her maids that were made stiff with their washing and work otherwise. "Do you not have eyes such as mine and a gift for a cities verses, what would I find lacking?"
Oh, he thinks, She's that kind. Which does nothing to really alter the quality of his wariness - the Lady or Lord that wants to know the opinion of his breed can take offense as easily as any other sort, only this is the kind that invites more opportunity for it, isn't it? -, but there's a kind of familiarity in recognizing it. It's not enough to soften his hand at all, but it does free the tongue somewhat. If she wants his opinion, he can probably be trusted to find one as they walk the length of the room.
"Only that I know Naples by my profession and you'll see the place in garlands. Nothing lacking, just--" He pauses. Decides he doesn't care for the clutter of words in his mouth and changes them. With his spare hand, he gestures to the level of his head, then hers. "Our heights are different. That changes the appearance of things."
Her hands find her skirts, as they come to a series of steps, that take them up - to an open door that bathes them in light from an open door. Beyond it, an open courtyard. Secluded in the centre of the near palatial villa that marked the affection of the Borgia pope on his most devoted subject. There for them to take a turn in the warmth of the spring sun. Like the sky itself was simply there to be at her disposal.
"And a fool thinks the garlands does not hang by the force of those in your profession." She hums, how to broach. To be direct, to be delicate. Which would afford them comfort in the days to come. Then comes to the simplest form. "I serve a man of many enemies." If he takes her meaning. How careful do you think I must be? Can I count on you to see to them?
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no subject
His Italian is fair, though the accent is crooked enough that it may be half of why the man before her says so little. Surely in combination with his looks, it can be no reassurance. He has washed his face and hands, spent an hour in the evening working the dirt from under his fingernails, and has combed his hair as neatly as he knows to and concealed the worn edges of his doublet under a sturdy cloak with a lovely braided edge, but there can be no denying some sharpish quality there. Too much limb and too narrow a face coupled with too easy a hand at the pommel of the very fine sword at his hip.
But surely the man can't be as unsuitable as he looks standing there in the marbled villa. After all, he has been hired for the work by people invested in her care and wears the second place ring recently won in the torneo there on his first finger. And he stands straight enough. No uneasy shifting or faltering, though she is exceptionally pleasant to the eye and he has had little work in the way of minding women.
("Could you make this ride and see to it that no harm comes to her?" had been the question, not "Would you stand in front of her and see how she cares for you?")
"The road should be easy. It's been a warm spring."
no subject
Her hand settled on the greyhound's back. Laying ringed fingers in even spaces to curve across its soft coat. Its head turned at the tone of a new voice, ears flicking before it moved back to settle in her lap, sniffing at her hand to look for a treat, perhaps. Something sweet as the animal went to lip and lick his mistress' fingers.
"Forgive me, it seems I have not been given the name to who will as the length of my shadow, these coming days."
no subject
The sound of the dog's tongue as it licks its small chops fills the quiet that lingers in the space after. Standing there, Marcoulf seems to expect something of her. Perhaps more questions or some direction that he should speak to her driver or first maid or whomsoever she means to take along with her. There are undoubtedly details in place in which he has no say at all, but will be expected to find a place to fit his arm. Were she a man he might ask her Do you expect much trouble on the journey, but she likely knows little of it and his guess is, No. Their party is sure to be well armed to discourage petty thieves and too specific that anyone with delusions of a grand prize would risk what might follow after should she come to harm.
What that makes him, he doesn't know. Only that Lords and Ladies often prefer something to amuse themselves with while traveling and the man who had seen him brought on had come to a competition to find him and not to the mercantile houses where there are plenty of able and reputable swords to be had.
"Congratulations," he says after a pause. "With regard to the happy reason to go to Naples."
Weddings. They're nice.
no subject
But not him it seems.
It is after he speaks the second time - that her hand lifts, gesturing him closer to her with a sweep of her fingers and curl of her wrist. Letting him come closer to her. "It will be a pleasant diversion from Rome. Have you travelled the paths there before?"
She has been given many assurances as to his skill. But skill did not make up everything of the hours and hours upon the road. She would be expected to ride, which she did not mind, given that she had assurances of some rest between them. Even if he proved to be dull company, he might tell her if the scenery would be pleasant.
no subject
"Twice between here and there, though I've made my way from it more." Lots of work to be had out of Naples. He draws his hand from the sword as he nears, hooking his fingers at the knot of his wrapped cloak instead. "What would you like to know about it?"
no subject
"Will it be a beautiful journey, or will we find nothing but mud and hills?"
no subject
Not that it shows in his face or the sloped line of his shoulders. He meets her eyes naturally enough, thumb absently tracing the knot of fabric at his shoulder. "If this weather holds, the only trouble I can imagine we'll find on the road will be if you don't care for blooming things. The road will be dirty of course, but the land around it should be lovely enough. More so once we reach the coast."
This is poor conversation, he thinks. What could he say that she might want to hear? Does she wish to know of Naples, or is all her curiosity for the land between here and there?
"Have you never been to Naples, Signora?" Maybe those are close enough.
no subject
Her hands move again, this time it is to pick up the dog who dozes and put him to the ground. It rouses the beast letting him bark and his tail to wag before his trainer - whistles for him, beckoning for the dog to return to him. She follows it for a moment before she turns back. Now, she stands to join him. Gathering up the crush of silk and wool that makes up the bulk of her dress, embroidered at the hems to break up the block strong colours or pink and yellow. Taking it up in one hand to keep it out of the way of soft leather shoes. That unlike the clip of his boots are quiet on the marble.
It is there, that instead of the order of station that dictates so much, she offers him her hand for him to take. "Nor have I travelled so far outside of Rome, before. You must forgive me, it seems I look for the assurance of what I might find if you will be so kind as to indulge me with your tales."
no subject
Though he's fully capable of being bewildered. The look he gives her hand is as confused as it is appalled (thank you, Father, that he remembered to scrub under his fingernails), but after a too long flicker of hesitation he accepts her small, soft hand across his rough palm. He does not close his fingers. However, his arm is sturdy enough this his hand is yet supportive and though it's clear he had no idea how to walk with a Lady, he certainly knows the walking part is key. There's something meant to be done with his spare hand, he thinks, but cannot for the life of him recall ever seeing a man and woman wall together in his life though he knows he had seen his fair share.
No matter. Surely she knows what she's signed herself up for. Marcoulf clears his throat and guides Italy's most treasured woman by the hand the length of her own veranda.
"Then I'll say that the ride is straight forward and the road is as good as these things can be." Muddy and full of holes, but horses will make simple enough work of it. " And that the coastline is good and that you'll find plenty to do there if the happy occassion doesn't take your full attention." Women like poetry and words that make pictures, don't they? "The sea is very blue there and the city is nearly as white as Rome, only its built on its port and so is all ships and trade and every great room has been painted by the best hands on the continent."
A pause. A confession: "I don't know the place like you will."
no subject
Her face turns even if her steps do not falter as they stroll. Yes, they were different. Her fingers were soft, unmarred, in his. Rubbed with oils and milk of a morning. By contrast, his were steady, sure, clean certainly in that they were marred with their work.
But she did not find she minded. She had felt Cesare's hands when he had embraced her and Lucrezia in his victories. Felt how a lifetime of papers had left Rodrigo's dried smooth. Her maids that were made stiff with their washing and work otherwise. "Do you not have eyes such as mine and a gift for a cities verses, what would I find lacking?"
no subject
"Only that I know Naples by my profession and you'll see the place in garlands. Nothing lacking, just--" He pauses. Decides he doesn't care for the clutter of words in his mouth and changes them. With his spare hand, he gestures to the level of his head, then hers. "Our heights are different. That changes the appearance of things."
no subject
"And a fool thinks the garlands does not hang by the force of those in your profession." She hums, how to broach. To be direct, to be delicate. Which would afford them comfort in the days to come. Then comes to the simplest form. "I serve a man of many enemies." If he takes her meaning. How careful do you think I must be? Can I count on you to see to them?