I Would Adventure: Part Two

Content Warning: Click here for warnings (possible spoilers)

"What fates impose, that men must needs abide."

September 2nd

The night had been unbearably quiet.

At home, nights were never completely silent. The guards' worn leather boots regularly marked the half-hours on the floors, the staircases, and even the gravel in the courtyard. The lowliest servants were nearly always finishing the last day's work or beginning the next. In the distance, the bell above the Capulet crypt kept an ancient vigil in remembrance of the dead. The warning bell above the house occasionally murmured when the wind was strong.

Here, everything was silent. There wasn't so much as a dog to keep watch. Tybalt couldn't sleep if there was no-one else awake. 

It didn't much matter - it would only be one sleepless night. The ladies had insisted he stay rather than ride back to the village in the hastening dark. However, the silent agreement was that he ought to return there the following afternoon. He would wait for his sister to arrive the next morning, as though he had never used her letters to get around her husband. 

When he finally heard people stirring in the house - the servants, doubtless - it was near daybreak. Tybalt pushed back the blanket and forced himself to sit up. Sleeping now would be a waste. He would have a glut of solitary hours in which to sleep later.

The nuzzling warmth had left the morning sky when Cerimon arrived in the kitchen. The sky was blue and clear but for a few feathery clouds. Though the air had a cold undercurrent that warned of autumn's arrival, it was a pleasant day. Back in his mistress' household, Cerimon would have spent such a day in his own workroom. The windows would be open to the air sweeping over the tips of his herbs. This house was not so open or lovely as the castle, but living here temporarily had its joys, too. Having a patient on whom he could finally use the whole of his talents and training, and hearing that patient call him indispensable, was no small pleasure. 

A small pleasure was breakfast. It had quickly become Cerimon's favorite meal during his time in Verona. The morning meal at home was generally light and favored many of the ingredients he used in his work. He had been warned that certain segments of Veronese society regarded the overnight fast as a moral issue and the breaking of the fast as a contest of endurance. Happily, the ladies of the house felt otherwise. Cerimon was so spoiled that he wasn't sure he could go back to mint tea and fruit in the mornings. 

Accordingly, his disappointment was great when Moth gave him a plate identical to the plain one she had given herself. He had hoped she was simply not hungry. "Uh, did something get into the larder?"

"No."

"The cellar?"

"No, nitwit." Moth, the cook, sat down beside him. She was accustomed to eating alone after she had fed the rest of the house. It was frankly easier to whip up a nibble for herself once her morning duty was done than to try to join the communal meal. Lately, Cerimon had delayed eating to keep her company. Moth was doing her best not to think anything of it. "It's market day, you know." The rest of the servants had set out early to replenish the stores of food and household goods. Cerimon and Moth always stayed behind - Cerimon in case of trouble with Lady Anne and Moth so she could sort out her empty kitchen before the others came home. "The fresh items were so poor last week that I used more food than I had planned. I couldn't very well start putting out less on the table, and then the stranger stayed for supper and now breakfast!" 

"So you gave him my meal?" Cerimon whined.

"Oh, shush. We had several chicken's eggs left." Moth glanced at Cerimon's plate, already emptier than it had been. "Which I see you are enjoying. There's plenty, plain as it is. You won't starve."

"But-"

"Shush, I said." Moth had two younger brothers who liked to complain. Men! Working themselves up over every little thing. Honestly. "Eat your breakfast, and when the others come back, I'll make up a batch of honey cakes. You can have the first one." 

In the dining room, which was inhabited by four people unaware of any shortages in the pantry that morning, breakfast was a quiet affair. Georgiana found she wasn't very hungry. Last night, she hadn't been very tired, either. She had studied the dark ceiling just as she now studied her plate. Yesterday had been both dreadful and beautiful. She didn't know what to think of it, but she wanted to think of it constantly. Today was threatening to be far less beautiful.

She understood their reasoning. Juliette would be upset to hear her letters had been picked apart for information. Fitzwilliam would find it difficult to overlook Tybalt acting in secret (again.) If neither of these things were important, then there was still cause to lie: her mother. Her mother wanted a peaceful, enjoyable visit with her son. How could anyone rob her of that comfort in good conscience?

And yet, she was tempted. She was sorely tempted to argue that the truth was the better option. Watching Juliette keep a secret from her brother these last few months had saddened Georgiana. She didn't want to go down that path with her own brother. Her selfishness didn't stop there, either. After such a wonderfully confusing day, Georgiana didn't want Tybalt to leave yet. Formalizing anything before her mother was safely delivered of the baby was out of the question, but to lose the informal? To pretend nothing had happened at all? If she was on a road which would lead to happiness, she wanted to explore it. 

"Dearest, don't you want your breakfast?"

Georgiana forced a pleasant smile. She had hoped pushing her food around her plate would disguise her lack of appetite. "I'm not very hungry this morning."

Anne nodded in motherly indulgence. In another girl, Anne would have suspected an attempt at delicacy in front of a man. In Georgiana, she suspected a flutter of anxiety. Anne was almost sorry it was for the best for Tybalt to leave this afternoon. Aside from his bad points, he did seem to have a talent for helping her daughter forget herself. "Did you give Gwyn my list of requests for the market?"

"Last night, yes." For a moment, Georgiana paused. She had read the list. By the end, she was quite suspicious of its intentions. Other than chocolate, which had to be brought in specially and was kept in a separate cupboard, the list looked remarkably like a certain recipe. "Are you... are you planning to put yourself to any trouble, Mother?" Her mother's orders were for rest whenever possible. 

"It's hardly trouble, Georgiana. I can sit, and Moth can assist me."

"Yes, but you should be resting. Fitzwilliam would much rather you take care of yourself."

"Dearest, when you are a mother being kept from mothering your children, you will understand. Until then-" 

Raised voices and a godawful racket in the kitchen snapped everyone to attention. 

"Who are you!"

"Get out!"

"Bloody fuckin' Fae, e'rywhere I look!"

Shouts and screams were punctuated by crashes of furniture and pots to the floor.

Tybalt was the first out of his seat. He didn't know the voice, but he knew what it brought. He had lived it at home and, more recently, in Lammast. When he reached for his dagger, he felt only his hip. It was upstairs with his sword. "Upstairs, now!""

For a woman of her age, Lady Constance moved well enough. Georgiana started toward her, to help her go even more quickly, but her mother gave her pause. Anne was a healthy woman, but her advanced pregnancy was not conducive to quick movement. "Mother, quickly. Let me help-"

"Georgiana, go!" Tybalt ordered over the din coming from the kitchen. Rather than waste precious, unarmed seconds on questions or apologies, Tybalt picked Anne up and followed the other ladies out the door and up the staircase. "Go as far back as you can!" 

As they rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, Tybalt looked out and down into the common room. He was relieved to see it empty. Whoever had burst in was not heading a organized team of assailants. It made matters easier, but not necessarily safer. "Did you bring your bow?"

"Yes, I did." She fumbled briefly with the door handle before pushing her way into the back bedroom. Georgiana pulled her grandmother in and out of the way. "Do you need it?"

Tybalt came in on her heels and tried not to drop Anne too roughly onto the bed. "No, you do." He grabbed Georgiana by the arms before she could ask the question and stared into her eyes. "Get the bow now and barricade the door." 

"What about you?"

"I'm going down there. If anyone else comes to that door, put two arrows into them." 

"Two arrows? Tybalt, I-"

"You can't leave it to chance. Two arrows-" Beneath them, thudding footsteps were on the move. Tybalt's hand clenched, anticipating a sword in its grip. Every moment he was upstairs was a moment for chaos to dig its heels in downstairs. "Promise me, two arrows." 

Georgiana couldn't promise that, not in good conscience. But this was no time for her conscience. The noise that had filled the house in the last minute had gone dead - no more thuds or shouts. Only God knew what had befallen poor Moth and Cerimon. Tybalt was their best hope, and if Tybalt wanted words, he would have them. "Two arrows." They left the room together and parted in search of their arms.

Downstairs, the intruder, a man called Norr, left the kitchen and two insensible Fae servants behind him. He was a foreigner who originated from the land between Abaddon's Valley and the Veronese border. Last year, he had signed onto a pirate ship which had menaced the Fae coast. The ship was recently seized by Verona's navy. The crew was captured, but Norr and a few others had escaped yesterday. Penniless and wanted by the Ducal Guards, he had foraged for what he needed - food, boots, and a crude but intact sword. Now he needed goods to pay for an escape.

Tybalt had crept the length of the hall with his favorite sword in his hand. It was the only inconvenient belonging he had brought on the ride away from the inn. Even when he didn't expect danger, he wouldn't leave it behind. It was part of him. In a situation that wasn't endangering Georgiana and her family, he would have been excited. Daggers and fists were fine for casual fighting, but they were nothing to swords. Sword fighting was the most beautiful discipline in the art of combat. When he struck an enemy, he stained them with his color, the blood red of the Capulets.

The intruder was now in the common room, examining a pitcher and goblets to determine their worth. Rather than give the bastard a warning by way of the stairs, Tybalt climbed over the railing and dropped to the floor. He landed on his feet, with his sword threatening the spine of the intruder. "Kneel."

Norr grinned. He had written off the footsteps as a pack of women, but there was a man among them after all. He hoped it was the lord of the house. There wasn't a creature in the world that Norr hated more than a noble lord. He hated the arrogance, the manners, and the fine way they pronounced their words, as if common words weren't good enough for them. If there was one thing he liked, it was the stupidity - the man at the end of the blade never looked any further than Norr's turned back. "I ain't kneelin' to no-one!" He turned and brandished his weapon.

The crude weapon was both a relief and a concern to Tybalt. This man wasn't working for anyone, not with a sword like that. He was a common thief. Yet, common thieves could be dangerous. Peasants didn't fight by form or adhere to any code of honor. In Lammast, he had shed blood fighting by rules that nobody else knew. He wanted to disarm this garbage as quickly as possible. "Then lie down! Else, I'll put you down."

Clashing metal was the only reply. 

Norr was not a swordsman. When he waved one during raids, it was only because the man without one was a quick target. He preferred an axe or a club, or even his bare fists. Although willing to fight with his weapon, he was better prepared to intimidate someone who was not. He swung wildly, trying to hit any part of Tybalt from as far as he could. Tybalt never stopped moving. When Norr thought he had the upper hand, with Tybalt's back to a nearby corner, he made a swipe for the nearest limb - a leg. He missed the flesh, but he struck something else. The fight began anew. 

Upstairs, Georgiana was listening to the fight from the corridor. She told herself it was only logical. A bow was better at a certain distance - such as the one from her mother's door to the top of the staircase. As the fight wore on, however, she was slowly using up that distance. Her feet inched forward at every grunt and every curse. Her mother and grandmother were safe - they were behind her. She knew they were safe. Tybalt was the one in danger. 

There came a point where she regretted what she had done. The overwhelming sounds of combat made her sick with fright. If she had a nightmare half so bad in all her life, she couldn't remember it. Quivering against the wall, bow in hand, Georgiana tried to remind herself that Tybalt knew what he was doing. She wasn't made to fight, but he was. He had the right mind for it.

"How can I hurt a person? When I say 'person', I mean 'flesh and blood.'

"When you say 'person', you mean 'soul.'

"Villains don't have souls."

A heavy thud shoved these recollections clear out of Georgiana's head. A second thud - sturdy, but lighter, with a distinctive metal wake - was either promising or devastating. On tenterhooks, she waited for the judgment. It came in a string of curses in a familiar, heart-sinking voice. Georgiana didn't hear the words, only the siren call of the voice, luring her out into the fray. 

"Stand away from him!" 

Both men looked up in surprise. One almost smiled; the monster leered. "Oh, I'm to piss m'self over a bit o'skirt like you?" 

Her heart was still seized with vain hope that Tybalt could right himself. He was trapped under that table with his sword out of his hand. Although his head was bleeding, he looked sensible. He was only trapped. If I can distract the other just a minute more, perhaps Tybalt can get up. "I said, stand away from him and lay down your sword!"

He laughed and kicked Tybalt's sword into the wall. "That I will, when I fuck you raw o'er his corpse." Norr had absolutely no fear that the girl in pink knew how to use a bow. Instead, he chose to taunt his prey before the kill. "Lost my wife to a lord like you, real high an' mighty, thought he could tell a man what he could an' couldn't do to his woman. A right ugly bitch she were, but she were mine, and he took her. Looks like I'll be gettin' my due now - an' more."

While Norr chattered, Georgiana drew her bow with quaking fingers. She aimed for the wall. It would take one good shot to stun the man and give Tybalt a chance to move. Mother. Grandmother. The baby. Tybalt. Tybalt. Tybalt...

"Bloody cunt!"

Tybalt, more stunned by a crack to the head than hurt, took the opportunity. He slid out from under the bloody edge of the table and knocked Norr off his feet. While the disarmed man scrambled for balance, Tybalt regained his sword.

"Lettin' your bitch do yer fightin'! A right lord o'the cushions, you are!" 

"My lady is the only reason you remain intact." The tip of Tybalt's sword pressed into Norr's breastbone informed him of how quickly that could change. "Kneel."

"I ain't!"

"Now!"

Georgiana emerged into the room behind Tybalt's back, still carrying her bow - just in case. When the intruder's eerie eyes landed on her, she felt unclean, as if a horrible insect was scampering over her skin.

Norr sized up Tybalt, whose muscles were nearly twitching with the desire to kill him. Going out on the tip of a blade would be a fair sight better than the noose. "I ain't. You want your cock sucked, ask yer slut." 

Tybalt's sword hit the floor just before Norr did. The dull pain in Tybalt's fist didn't satisfy him; knocking the man out cold wasn't enough. He kicked him once in the gut and again in the head, and if Georgiana hadn't said his name, he might have picked up his weapon again.

Several steps back, Georgiana sighed when Tybalt stepped away from the monster. He wasn't badly hurt if he could do that much, but she wanted to keep him that way. As she tried to think of what to do next, her eyes caught on the arrow embedded in the wall. If the intruder hadn't moved as he taunted Tybalt, he would be dead by her hand - and she didn't know if it would have been intentional. Poor aim... or was it? Did I mean to... No, she couldn't risk that thought at all.

Tybalt, on the other hand, wished he could rip the pierced panel from the wall and take it home. Truth or fiction, he had already chosen his interpretation of her shot. Not even the necessity of it, which ought to have offended his pride, would rob him of his enjoyment. He might have admired it forever if circumstances allowed. "Are you all right?"

"Me? Yes, of course, but you're hurt." She frowned. "Your head is bleeding. Oh, and you're limping!"

"I went over that chair backwards and into the table." He had only meant to go over the chair, unaware it was on rockers and not legs. "I'll be fine. We need to take care of that thing and check on your servants."

Georgiana agreed but hesitated. Although she needed his help, she had a great desire to make Tybalt sit down. "You're certain you are fit for it?"

"I've never been better."

September 3rd

"So, if I understand this correctly," Juliette said, "you stumbled on Georgiana after using my letters like some sort of cipher. Then the ladies asked you to stay the night, and an armed brigand broke in during breakfast. You fought him with your sword, and then Georgiana had to rescue you with her bow. Is that right?" 

Tybalt shrugged. 

"Brother, if it wasn't for last Christmas, that would be the most ridiculous story I've ever heard." 

Fitzwilliam had been silent throughout the tale. The only indication of his reaction had been his movements. He had started out sitting next to Juliette, then visited the window, and finally came to rest behind the sofa. Still restless, he tapped his boot against the wood floor. "What happened to the criminal?" 

"Tybalt and I thought it would be best to put him in the cellar under the kitchen while he was still insensible." After a concerned look from Juliette, she added, "We discarded everything in there afterward."

"And the servants?" Fitzwilliam asked his sister. "Cerimon and Moth were in the kitchen, weren't they?" 

"Cerimon was just waking when we got to him. He took a blow to the head and bled a bit, but he's doing just fine. He's even made his own remedies." 

"And Moth?" 

"Moth was so clever, Fitzwilliam! She pretended to have been hit when the man came at her. Then, when he left the kitchen, she went for help. The Guards were already looking for the man - he was an escaped prisoner. She didn't make one slip in the story, either - so steady!  The captain even said his good wishes for Grandmother's health as he left."

Fitzwilliam nodded. His expression lingered in the fog of distraction, betraying his thoughts as not entirely focused on what had been said to him. Georgiana watched him intently. She wished for a certain reaction - not pleased or satisfied, not exactly, but somewhere nearby to those. When he finally looked at her, the fog was gone. "Well done, then. Both of you." He rounded the sofa to help his sister up from her seat. "Will you take me up to see Mother?"

"Of course."

"Good, then." He almost left, but a second thought stopped him. Fitzwilliam turned back and held out his hand to Tybalt. "Thank you."

From her seat, Juliette watched the handshake with delight. She could barely suppress the laughter that threatened to pop her smiling lips open. The expression on her brother's face was unforgettable. If she only had some means of capturing it so he could see it himself, Juliette's life would have been momentarily perfect.

The dazed smile was still plastered on Tybalt's face when he dropped down beside her. Juliette longed to tease him for it. Lacking the heart, she pursued another topic, one that wouldn't dim his face. "So, it sounds like you had a good birthday after all."

"I've had worse."

Fitzwilliam held his feelings in as far as the hallway at the foot of the stairs. There was no denying that his sister had grown up, and he was at peace with that. She was alive and well and whole. The details didn't matter. "I'm proud of you, Georgiana."

Juliette's life may not have been perfect, but Georgiana's was.

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