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Meetings
Palace Courtyard Before the palace lies this substantial square of stone and turf, where many may gather, some are greeted, and all are watched. This courtyard is enclosed by the palace walls ever patrolled by royal guards but easily entered through towering iron gates. The gates remain open from sunrise to midnight, save in emergencies; when closed at odd hours they become a silent signal that something is amiss. Across from that portal, doors of artfully carved chestnut lead into the palace proper and, as with the walls, are manned at all times by a pair of honor guards. The doors themselves are surmounted by a stonemason's rendering of the seal of Avanne. Subordinate wooden gates lead on either side of the palace to the stables and the kitchen area for delivery of foodstuffs. The clatter of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels permeate the courtyard except on holidays and particularly foul weather.
It's not often that a day in Gesarien, even in the middle of winter, is quite so unpleasant. Cold, with an intermittent spray of rain that blissfully has ended for the time being. It keeps most indoors, though there are always those that must be about the city for one purpose or another regardless of time or weather. One such is the man that enters the main gates of the palace on horseback. As he swings down from the saddle, he hands the reins to a nearby boy who takes the horse away. Alain's breath is visible in the air, and he runs a hand through disheveled hair before casting a look about the courtyard. Searching for a familiar face, perhaps. With the lull of rain and sleet, most of the courtyard is visible, though there are few travelers other than the guards who dare the weather. While the face is unlikely to be familiar, one such traveler wears clothes and a sigil that is doubtless quite recognizable. Huddled back into a fur-lined cloak, the Duke of Mirvil leads a small party of guards away from the two wooden boats that brought them in from New City. Durand's own eyes are cast forward towards the palace proper, ignoring those guards that move out of the way of his entourage. With every step, a trail of white breath flutters behind him in the frigid air. The sound of the approaching company brings Alain to turn with halfhearted curiosity. Which turns to something both less disinterested and less pleased as his eyes move past the sigil. However, being a man of some manners, he bows. A bit more deeply and a bit more floridly than the average casual encounter, but respect is indeed there. It also serves to mask the expression on his face. As you bow, your County emblem is also hidden, facing the sleet covered mud at your feet. Even still, your bearing and your clothing details your noble lineage, and the stolid Duke brings his small troupe to a stop before your bow. Before you can raise and greet Durand, his voice rings out thinly in the cold air. "Would you know if the Count de Soncerre has arrived here a court, my young Lord?" Young Lord, he can not be but five or six years older than you. Alain straightens, as is expected, shifting his shoulders beneath his cloak. His county is evident now, both from the pin attached to the collar as well as the color of his attire. "As I have only but arrived myself, my Lord, I am uncertain of the answer," he replies, voice calm and even. A thin smile shifts his lips as he adds. "Sadly, I am also unacquainted with the Count, and would not recognize him in any case." On a pleasant day, in better weather, a large smile would have greeted the Count, no matter his alliegance. However, even with the break in the rain the air is near freezing, and the ground is both frozen and slick, and a grim countenance is all that Durand has for the young Alain. Without showing any disappointment on his face, the Duke turns his body towards the castle proper, but keeps his attention on the Count, indicating that he wishes for Alain to walk with him. "Any news from Chaveaux? I hope that your journey was more pleasant than mine." The mud encrusted into his breeches and cloak can attest for the conditions on /his/ travels. Alain nods, albeit briefly, and his eyes remain on the Duke of Mirvil. "When I arrived a week past, I had the fortune of travelling in slightly better, though no warmer, weather. I suspect you know as much of the news from Chaveaux as I, my Lord. Her Grace's ascension is no secret," he says. "In point of fact, I have come looking for her. I am told she was visiting the palace." With steady, even paces, Durand leads both Alain and his small number of guards towards the castle proper. It is obvious that none of them wish to remain outside any longer than strictly necessary. With a steady voice, he answers Alain without showing a hint of prejudice, "I have also heard the same news, though I have yet to meet her within the city. With the palace in a state of mourning, there has been no formal balls or gatherings where our paths would cross." He does not state the obvious, that their enemities have probably kept them apart. "Have you summoned a page for your horse?" Looking back he sees if Alain has brought with him any servants or squires, and then he jumps directly into the next topic, not waiting for any answer from the Count, "What business has brought you out in this miserable weather?" From the castle proper, as if in response to haring her name, the aforementioned Duchess of Avanne emerges and raises a cowl over the fiery sheen of her northern-spawned tresses. A quartet of guards in her duchy's livery are close by, and a page darts away on some duty or other while Joanna's lips press together. The frown could be in answer to the weather, in response to something that transpired before her emergence from the warmth of the palace, or in reaction to where her eyes rest: on the pair of noblemen approaching. In any event, the expression smooths itself to a more pleasant mien as she awaits the opportunity to address them at a reasonable distance. She herself is going to remain at the entrance, where she may attain a modicum of protection against the dreadful weather. The soft swish of heavy fabric is a momentary precursor to the tall woman who emerges from the palace a few moments after the Duchess. She is without the large retenue that accompany her Grace, but she is joined by another woman; a handmaiden of some sort if her rather plain appearance is any indication. Melisse lingers back, half in shadow of the palace's entry as she studies the courtyard and then, more importantly, the skies above. She too scowls, but with her gaze cast upward, the reason for her icy disapporval is rather easy to interpret. Alain had opened his mouth to answer the Duke's first question, but given no chance to do so, he snaps it shut once more. A moment of silence passes before he does speak. "A message for Her Grace," he answers succinctly, walking beside the Duke. Their direction puts the Duchess in view, and something of Alain's stiff manner fades. "It seems I have located her," he adds. Following Alain's sudden look, Durand notices the Duchess and her entourage. For the first time during his short walk across the courtyard, he allows himself a smile to soften his stern appearance. Whether the smile was forced or not is quite difficult to tell. Turning, he approaches Joanna, slowing his step to allow Alain to reach his liege...lady....first. "Your Excellency." Joanna greets Alain first, not because of preference but because he is first in the pairing. Her smile to him is generous and genuine, and to him she presents her hand to formalize the salutation. But over his shoulder she looks at the Duke of Mirvil and she adds to him, more quietly, "Your Grace." The lady who approaches nearby she has not yet seen, thanks to the guards who hover close by. Melisse pauses for a moment as she gathers her cloak around her and turns her attention back to those gathered nearby. There is a hesitation of movement that speaks of indecision. Again there is a momentary glance skyward before she reluctantly steps out into the weather. The handmaid is at her side, holding her own thinning cloak around her. Melisse drifts to the side, forcing herself into her Duchess' line of sight without rudely interrupting the proceedings, such as they are. Again she studies the two men. With Alain there is a a glimmer of recognition, but the second man recieves a more quizzical expression, a gaze that lingers longer than it did on Alain. No matter whose eyes are upon Durand, his attention is fully upon the slight girl before him. As he stops, his guardsmen align behind him, as if they were attempting a show of force. The looks upon their faces are nothing like the calm pleasure that is alight in Durand's. The Mirvil guards all appear as if they are forced to look at something they'd rather attack, not an ounce of subtley in any of them. With a gentle voice, Durand greets Joanna with an echo, "Your Grace." Looking towards the Count, he sees that there is no one here to make a formal introduction, someone who knows both parties. "If you will excuse me, my Lord, I feel I must interrupt your message bearing to be properly introduced to the Duchess..." "Of course, your Grace. The message can wait, in any case," says Alain with a noticeably patient tone. He approaches Joanna, and bows deeply. As he straightens again, his eyes flick toward Melisse with recognition, though his task of introduction prevents him from allowing any more than that for the moment. Addressing Durand, he says, "Your Grace, may I present Her Grace, Joanna de Chaveaux, the Duchess of Chaveaux." The set of his shoulders is looser now, as though his back had itched with the Mirvil guards behind him. "And may I also present the Lady Melisse, Countess de Gallerneault," he adds, extending a hand toward said noblewoman. "What a pleasure to meet you at last," Joanna says quietly to Durand, although the tone is a trifle dry. She smiles again, briefly, at Alain before continuing to Melisse, "And my Lady Melisse, a delight indeed, though I cannot imagine why you are outside in so dreadful a day." Behind and beside her, the ducal entourage glowers; no love is lost between the Mirvil collection and the Chaveaux group. "Lord Alain...join me, will you? I had hoped to see you." At Alain's introduction Melisse demonstrates a small curtsey, just barely on the edge of polite, though for the Duchess Melisse loosens her grasp of her cloak to make a proper show of respect. "It is Orien's will that the weather should be so foul, my Grace," Melisse speaks to Joanna in a voice tinted with the haughty tone of the pious. "I am certain the fields will be thankful for it when spring comes. In any event, a few raindrops will not imprison me inside when duties of the faith must be attended to." The Duke's own bow towards each of the ladies is the proper depth, not an inch more or less than is their due. The weather has leeched some of the grace out of his bones, as he seems to have been robbed any fluidity of motion. His own eyes take in the words of each person, taking stock of any insult or compliment that abounds. "It has been far too long, your Grace. Allow me to extend to you the congratulations of all of Mirvil on your ascencion. The loss of your father has come at such a horrid time for Avanne, and for Chaveaux." Seeing Joanna request to speak to her liegeman, he also adds, "Do not allow me to keep any of you from a set task. Neither Orien, nor the duties towards your Duchy, should be kept waiting for me..." Alain inclines his head to the Duchess. "As you wish, Your Grace," he murmurs, though in truth he has already joined his own duchy's party. "Though I do not pretend to speak for anyone but myself, Your Grace," he says, turning to Durand, "as I mentioned, what messages I bear for the Duchess can wait. I would not presume to interrupt conversation between two of our fair nation's most prominent individuals." Joanna's lips curve into a smile that comes nowhere close to her eyes. "Why, your Grace, let me assure you that I should never let you keep me from the duties accorded me within the past weeks." A hand moves around the elbow of the Marquis as she welcomes him to her side. If he's not quite there, well...she'll try to lure him closer. "And my Lady Melisse, you speak well for one of the faith...I am certain Orien smiles upon you." Yes, Orien, whose church her family and half of the duchy abandoned three years earlier. Melisse holds a frozen smile for her Duchess, though her eyes show the strain within. "I certainly would not speak for Orien myself, my Grace, but I appreciate your kind words." The Countess delivers a second curtsey, as if to ease the chill that seems to radiate from her, one that has nothing to do with the weather. "But if you will all pardon me, I fear I cannot delay further. I am expected and it would be a poor showing indeed for myself and for the Count de Gallernault if I showed any disrespect to the Church." Melisse again gathers her cloak around her and draws up the deep cowl to brave the weather and depart from the palace. Durand dips his head in a departing nod for the fleeing Countess. "Be mindful of the weather, my Lady." It is about all he has time to get out, before she makes her way out of the palace. Indicating with a finger that his men should get out from the elements, the Mirvil party makes it way into the palace, filling the entranceway with its presence. Turning to Alain, he says solemnly, "You are a credit to your Duchess, to weather this for a few paltry messages that could wait for a small conversation from me." Though Alain smiles, one would be hard-pressed to call it anything approaching sincere. Crooked and mocking, though of himself or others is a secret he holds close. "I do but try my best, your Grace." He sketches a half-bow, a brief glance toward Joanna, gauging her mood. He adds, "Let it never be said that those of Chaveaux shirk their duties for a bit of rain." The emphasis he places on Chaveaux is so faint as to be nearly non-existent. To the departing Countess Joanna adds lightly, "We shall have to visit in more hospitable conditions, my Lady. Fare thee well," before her dark gaze finds Durand. "Your Grace, words cannot describe the delight I feel in meeting you at last. Shall we endeavor to see each other again, perhaps at dinner very soon?" To Alain she adds, "And I would seek a quiet place where your messages may be imparted, my lord, perhaps somewhere drier and less...chilly." Melisse crosses the western bridge toward Amnicoule Square. Withdrawing his heavy hands from the folds of his cloak, Durand begins to revive the blood within his flesh by rubbing his palms together briskly. "Dinner? It would be an honor to dine with the newest Duchess of Avanne. Just have a page contact me in my rooms as to when you would like to have me arrive." Taking note of her last few words, he nods his head further into the palace, and says, "Shall we move closer to a fire and some fortified wine?" "I am, as ever, at your service, your Graces," says Alain, with that same half-mocking smile. "My hands," he says, holding them out, gloveless, "would welcome a fire, there is no question of that." He turns, stepping aside to let his betters pass.
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