Whispers of the Gryphon

In which the party is caught in a storm at sea, and much is revealed of a storm brewing elsewhere as well.

The House of Marco series is generated as part of developing character backstories for the white side of the Human Combat Chess game at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I played Sir Kendrick Vaughn, the White Queen.

The storm lashed out wildly and the ship ran before it like a fox before the hounds. The wind, so gentle and caressing just that morning, was now a banshee howl that rendered conversation on deck nearly impossible. The crew was forced to relay commands by staggering up to one another and screaming their messages at a distance of mere inches from the ear of the recipient. Belowdecks, it was hardly any quieter, as the song of the storm was joined by a creaky and groaning chorus from the fleeing ship itself – not to mention the percussive accompaniment of the sea. Limpid and inviting of contemplation in repose, now each wave was a battering wall that sent the ship shuddering and all thoughts scattering as everyone fearfully anticipated the next shuddering impact.

Sir Kendrick Vaughn hardly minded the storm at all. His imperturbility came not from faith in the capability of the crew, although they seemed (With the exception of their reluctant captain) competent enough, though soaked to the skin and weary after hours battling through the battering weather. Nor was it with the confidence of God, for it hardly seemed worthwhile to offer up his own half-hearted prayers when the communiqués of a Jesuit Cardinal were undoubtedly rising (Surely buoyed by the nunnish fervor of Sister Anna Maria) from the cabin next door on a far more direct route to the Holy Seat. Rather, Kendrick left his trust in the unspoken proposition that existed between him and the Neptunian deeps – he would refrain from interference in the ocean’s affairs, and in return the ocean would not ruin his unquestionably fabulous articles of clothing by any unnecessary wettings that might follow a shipwreck. As he had conscientiously left the fishes, whales, dolphins and sundry kraken to their own devices, he had no fear that the sea, even in this roaring state, would fail to uphold its end of the bargain.

Lord Marco della Bianco, on the other hand, was in a high temper – although Kendrick shrewdly guessed this might have a closer connection to His Lordship’s general run of luck with the cards than with the currently turbulent voyage.
“Madre del dio!” he swore, getting up and attempting to stride angrily about the cabin. However, he misjudged the height of the overhead deck beams and fetched himself a solid clout, which, followed by a suddenly lurch of the ship sideways, persuaded him to quickly resume his seat. “Will this storm never end?” he complained, gingerly rubbing his head. “Tell me, Signore Kendrick – is the weather of your England as recalcitrant and mercurial as it is upon the ocean surrounding it? For if so, I’ve more than half a mind to order this miserable ship turned about right now!”

“Now, Marco,” replied Kendrick calmly, shuffling the deck of cards smoothly even as the deck beneath his feet assumed a precipitous incline. “How would your bride-to-be feel, waiting so expectantly on the stormy shore, to find that her future husband had turned tail and fled before even seeing her? My word upon it, her hope and trust in you shines forth like a beacon through the dark clouds to guide you safely to her port – and you would turn your back? Shame, Marco, indeed, that such a slight rainstorm could dampen your ardor so easily.”

Marco’s eyes grew wide, and he gripped the table as Kendrick dealt their hands. “Denti del Dio, you are right,” he whispered. “I had not considered...grazie, indeed, Kendrick, my friend.” He leaped to his feet – ducking hurriedly to protect his head this time - and staggered to the door, flinging it open. “Bestir, my friends,” he shouted down the passageway. “At the end of this paltry breeze lies my bride, and I would not waste a moment more! Courage, my friends, and speed our way! I-” he would have continued in this vein, but faintly from above came a shout in return, and he closed the door and lurched back to the table with a puzzled expression on his face. “Kendrick, il mio amico, I confess - though I had many fine tutors, the language spoken by your sailors hardly seems to be English at all. What does it mean, this ‘bugger off’?”

Kendrick’s expression froze, and after a barely perceptible beat he replied carefully, “It means, Marco, that the sailors understand the urgency of the situation, and they are already straining to their utmost to bring you safely to the embracing havens of both England and your bride-to-be.”

“Ah, indeed – that is a fine spirit in these sailors, my friend. We Venetians are masters of the Mediterranean for generations, but truth to tell, I think we hardly have to face storms such as these. Pray to God that he sees us through.”

“Of course, of course,” returned Kendrick. Lord, spare me from all these praying idiots! he thought, then said brightly, “Another hand, my lord? As you see, I’ve already dealt.”Just as your hand in life, you poor fool, Kendrick thought with a rare touch of compassion as he watched Marco frown thoughtfully at his cards. You are a participant in a game you barely understand and you let people whom you little know provide your cards again and again – carefully picked hands in which, believe me, my friend, there are no aces and few friendly faces. Your grandfather, now, he was a player of the master class, but he succumbed to the final downfall of the gambler – the grasping inability to give the game up at last. He took his stacked deck to the grave with him, and left your father, terrible bluffer that he was, to raise you - a straight gull in a world of crooked sharps. You believe – because your father believed – that this upcoming marriage will be the royal flush your family was looking for, but your flush is busted, as they say. There are already many with carefully planned tricks for your little queen. He sighed, and made a show of looking his own cards over. And I’m one of them. Il mio amico, indeed.
He made an attempt to turn his thoughts to other channels. “I wonder, my lord, whether your sister looks as eagerly for her waiting husband as do you your bride?”

“It matters little,” Marco replied sharply. “All her life, Marcella has been cursed with a streak of independence unbecoming a Venetian Signora. Now she serves our family by playing the role determined for her – wife to Cornelis Van der Buers of Flanders. Do you know of him, friend Kendrick? I’ll take...two cards, per favore.”

Kendrick dealt out two cards from the deck, ignoring how the swinging lamp caused the shadows to run and gambol around the cabin like things alive. “Van der Buers?” He pretended to think, and took one card. “I do not know the gentleman, indeed. A good match?”

“A good match? My dear Signore Kendrick, an alliance between his house – with its money-houses, factories scattered here and there across the world, and the trade goods brought back by my family’s galleys – a not inconsiderable fleet, even yet – will be the nucleus of a trade empire that will put my family back in its proper place in the world! We will again be able to hold up our heads, outface the proudest in Venice, not turn away like embarrassed beggars because we are not the strength we once were. The della Biancos will rise again!” Marco’s face was shining, and he was not looking at Kendrick, but rather beyond him, toward a glorious future that lay somewhere beyond the his current dank and heaving surroundings. So caught up in his vision was he that his hand dropped, clearly revealing all his cards – as Kendrick suspected, none of them of the nobility. He shrugged mentally, and tossed another coin into the dish at the table’s center.

Kendrick had already sounded out the Lady Marcella, and had discovered that, though indelicately independent as she was, her pride in her family was no less than Marco’s. A word in her ear of a smirch on the family name, a hint of mortal danger to Marco himself, and the ship entrusted to carry her to Flanders and her impatient groom would sail short one noble lady in its cargo. Kendrick had already had several quiet conversations with one or two sailors aboard the Legend – conversations in which the clink of money exchanging hands was the loudest component. They would be watching the Lady Marcella very carefully indeed, and waited only for the scheduled day of her departure to act.

After much thought, Marco, with an air of assumed confidence, tossed two coins into the dish. Outside, the wind howled derisively.

And thus, my friend, you and your sinking family is left with your upcoming marriage – to a lady who just happens to be a not-terribly-distant cousin of mine, thought Kendrick smugly. A union between your fleet, her dowried lands and my trading interests would serve the green Isle of Albion much better, I am given to understand by those closer to the royal court. And if love of country were not enough motivation, Kendrick had heard the bell-like hints and whispers of a place at court that might just be occupied by a rather fashionably dressed young lord on his way up in the world. I’ve got you, Marco, in the palm of my hand, and I intend to keep you there until my fortune is made. He inspected his cards again, then tossed an equal number of coins into the dish.

“All finished?” he asked brightly. “Time for the reckoning, then. Come now, let’s see those little servants of Fate – oh, bad luck, my lord. The weather is obviously throwing your game off something terrible. Another hand?”

The storm blew itself out eventually, and the remainder of the trip to England was uneventful. An apologetic Nature, rather embarrassed by her display of temper, made up for it with several weeks of the finest weather anyone could imagine, and it was on the golden afternoon of one of these fine days that the party trotted amiably past the gate-post that marked the border of Sir Kendrick’s newest estates.

In which Sir Kendrick experiences life on shipboard enroute to England, and encounters several passengers and members of the crew.

The House of Marco series is generated as part of developing character backstories for the white side of the Human Combat Chess game at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I play Sir Kendrick Vaughn, the White Queen.

Once again it was morning, and Sir Kendrick Vaughn lounged idly at the taffrail of the Royal English Navy man-o-war Legend, relishing the feel of the wind moving briskly by his face. After the calms of the last few days, he had feared he would be plunged back into the stifling heat that had dogged him throughout his stay in Venice. For days there had been no movement of air at all, and the canvas had hung sullenly from the yards. The air, so full of the absence of wind that one would have thought it could hold no more emptiness, seemed to suck the sound out of the ship as well, so that there was nothing to hear but the distant grumbling of the men in the jolly boat as they strained to row the ship forward. Most conversation had ceased after the second day, and an abstracted air had descended over the entire crew. The rollicking gatherings of an evening ended abruptly on the third evening - even with their daily rum ration, not a one could muster the energy to sing a shanty or dance a horn-pipe for long. The more superstitious among the men declined to even look over the side, for fear of frightening a burgeoning breeze away, and even the more hardheaded among the crew and passengers began to do the same - if more to avoid the scowling sideways glare of an easily offended tar than to protect the easily-offended wind.
Kendrick closed his eyes and faced aft. The wind played gustily with his hair before moving forward to tend to its business with the sails. As if his countenance would frighten a breath of air away, indeed!

It was on the fourth day that things had started to become slightly worrisome. Just because silence seemed to be the watchword for both officers and men, that didn’t mean that there were no grumblings, like the subterranean rumblings prior to a volcanic explosion. Even the less-superstitious sailors were not wildly excited about the presence onboard of not one, but two women (These being, of course, the Lady Marcella and her escort, the Sister Anna Maria) - and a priest, the Cardinal Don Antonio de la Noche. In the shallows of the ordinary seaman’s mind, the worst of luck followed ships with a woman or a priest aboard, and the fact that they had two of one and one of the other meant that they might as well give up and ready themselves to be swallowed by Leviathan straight away.

But the wind had freshened last night from the southwest and they had at last began to make good headway before the morning, when it had turned fitful once again. The refreshing breeze left off its caress of Kendrick’s face briefly, then returned with a strenuous and somewhat unexpected buss. Annoyed, he opened his eyes. He squinted his eyes at the horizon, then abruptly opened his eyes wide. Possible thunderclouds on the horizon were one thing, but wrinkles around his eyes were quite another. He moved to the railing and called into the waist.

“Bosun - a glass here, if you please!”

“Aye, sir!” came the reply, and Edward scrambled quickly up the ladder. “Here you are, sir. Spot something, sir?” His tone indicated the amused contempt - barely concealed - that all naval men exhibited for landsmen, even lords.

Kendrick didn’t reply, but took a long look before snapping the telescope closed and handing it back to the mate. “I suggest you attempt to extricate that captain of yours from his cabin. It looks as if we’re in for a bit of heavy weather.”

The bosun glanced through the glass briefly at the already darkening sky behind. “Aye, so it seems, sir. Not unusual weather for this time o’ year sir, and that’s the truth. You get a calm that lasts days, and then a storm that’s been piling on speed all the way from the Americas - a gift from our Spanish friends over there, we say, no offence to the his eminence, sir - and god ha’ mercy on the laggard caught in its way, and that’s us this time, sir.”

“Indeed. And your captain..?” prompted Kendrick.

“Oh, we’d best leave ‘im where he is, sir, and that’s the truth. The mate’ll have us all trimmed and running before the storm before you could convince the captain to show ‘is nose, meanin’ no disrespect. A fine man, our captain, none finer, but, well -” he hesitated.

“No head for the sea?” suggested Kendrick.

The mate barked a laugh. “Oh, very good sir, very good indeed - uh,” he hastened to explain, seeing Kendrick’s raised eyebrow - “Y’see, that’s what we call the, uh...the, uh...the privy sir, so when you said -”

“I see,” remarked Kendrick, his tone cold as the freshening breeze. “How the laughter must make the evenings fly by up in that - what d’you call it-” he gestured, “up front.”

“Fo’c’sle, sir, yes sir,” Said the suddenly subdued bosun. “Erm - ah, here’s the mate sir, perhaps you might want to head below? We’ll be awfully busy up here in a moment, sir.”

Kendrick nodded to Christian, the mate, and proceeded into the cramped stench that was belowdecks on one of Her Majesty’s ships of war. They had passed a few slave galleys on their way to the Atlantic, and the smell here was in no way comparable to that nasal festering, but it was bad enough. Even after a few days, it seemed to expand to fill all the available space, and it was for this reason Kendrick had spent a considerable amount of time on deck. Why, if he stayed below the smell might sneak into his clothes, and that would never do. On a whim, he moved aft to the captain’s cabin, using his stick to steady him in the already swelling seas.

To his surprise, he found the captain’s nephew Jareth squatting outside the door and whispering urgently through the keyhole. ‘Uncle! I mean, captain,” he hastily corrected himself. “Please! There’s a storm coming!”

“I don’t want to know!” groaned a voice. “First we spend four ghastly days not moving at all, and now I can’t get the floor to stop moving! Or the walls! Or the ceiling!”

“Sir-!” began Jareth, then spotted Kendrick behind him. He straightened up and tugged his forelock - just like one of the pressed men, noted Kendrick distastefully. The captain should take better care of his nephew’s education than to let him run loose as a savage among the beasts! “Oh! Good morning, sir!”

“Not for long, I fancy,” replied Kendrick brusquly. He raised his voice a trifle. “Any chance your uncle might make an appearance before this storm - the biggest I’ve ever seen at sea, I’d wager - pounces upon us and rends us like a tiger?” He was rewarded with a heartfelt groan from behind the door, and a sudden grin on Jareth’s face - quickly banished to be replaced by a serious look.

“No, sir. Feeling poorly, sir.” Jareth leaned forward and spoke in a confidential voice. “I reckon this’ll be his last voyage, sir. He’s not made for wide open spaces such as the sea, sir. On land, there’s none braver, on my honour. He should’ve followed me Mam’s advice, sir, and joined the Army. But he had a stroke of bad luck.”

“Ah? And what stroke could have severed the ties of a man so obviously bound to the land, and not to” Kendrick raised his voice again, “The vast, heaving, briny sea?”

There was another groan from behind the door.

The nephew grinned again and went on. “He was on his way to join the army in London, when the Queen happened to be parading by. Right in front of her there was a largish puddle, sir, and Uncle was always brung up as a gentleman, sir, even though we didn’t always have money, and was taught to be respectful of womenfolk, and especially Her Majesty, God save ‘er. So he leaps forward, tears off his brand-new cloak that me Mam had sewn for him, and laid it down over the puddle so Her Majesty shant get her foot wet. Well, her Majesty smiles and tramples onward, and when she gets to the far side, she says to Uncle, “Get ye up, and take a deal o’ thanks for such a gentlemanly thing,” only she says it in a ever so much more lordly way, if you follow me sir. Then she says, “As you have covered so well this puddle, it is now Our Royal wish that you cover Our oceans and protect England from a foreign wetting,” or some such, and made ‘im captain on the spot! And before you know it, he’s out on the waters, with nothing for miles but sea washing up and down, him that as would get oneasy in the middle of a smallish hayfield, and that’s the truth, sir.”

Jareth’s voice had risen as his story proceeded, and had apparently been penetrating the panel behind, for as he finished, the door was yanked open, and Captain Farrington stood in the doorway - his shirt unbuttoned, eyes bloodshot, and his hair matted and lank upon a deathly pale face. “It’s all true,” he sighed wretchedly, holding the doorframe in a deathgrip. “Let that be a lesson to you, boy, about the capricious nature of Royal gratitude. I promise you,” he shook a finger at Kendrick, before a swell forced him to make a grab at the frame again, “I promise you, upon my word as a - a seaman, that if I manage to get this awful little bobbing-cork masquerading as a boat back to Southampton dock, I will nail it there before I let it sail again! Now, if you’ll excuse me-” The door slammed. His nephew looked helplessly at Kendrick, who shrugged. As he proceeded up the passageway, he heard the boy’s fierce whispering begin again, punctuated by groans in response.

They quite quickly were overtaken in volume by the wind, which had apparently ceased its gusting and settled down in earnest for a good blow. He could hear shouting on deck, and the thump of mens’ feet as they ran hither and thither, battening things down, or whatever it was that they did. He descended another ladder, privately cursing the sheer indignity of it all - to think, he, clambering around on ladders like an African monkey - and when he turned, he was face to face with the Don Antonio.

“Why, your eminence,” he bubbled, instantly smoothing away his irritated frown into an innocent smile. “I am surprised to find you out of your delightful accomodations. I am wending my way toward mine even as we speak-”

“As you speak, you mean,” interrupted the Cardinal shortly . “And my quarters stink. The entire ship stinks, and now I hear there is a storm coming. This will not, I think, improve the smell.”

“A storm, indeed,” replied Kendrick, winching up the cheer another notch. Though he had known Don Antonio de la Noche for years, and was as close to him as an English Anglican could be to a Spanish Jesuit in these times, he couldn’t help tweaking the Cardinal’s nose - at least metaphorically speaking. The man was astoundingly dour for a Spaniard, and nothing drove him half as mad as relentless, bubbly chatter. “It reminds me of a storm that I once saw sweeping across the moors of my northern estates - well, of course, my estates aren’t quite as expansive as the vast deep that surrounds, but I flatter myself that they are not inconsiderable, and the sight of the thunderclouds as they-”

“Sí, sí -” broke in the Cardinal. His noticeably thicker accent betrayed his impatience, and Kendrick surpressed a smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Señor Kendrick, I would find the ladies and ensure they are prepared.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that, myself,” said Kendrick brightly, turning a sudden lurch of the ship into a pirouette that placed him in Don Antonio’s path again. “You see, the Lord Marco, after practically dragging his sister on board by force-”

“She was escorted by Sister Anna Maria, a highly respected nun-”interrupted de la Noche hotly.

“Yes, exactly. Come, my dear Cardinal, in your long career in the Church, have you never known a nun...” he paused slyly, and the Cardinal’s face purpled. Kendrick laughed inwardly and continued, “...who had no means of persuasion besides the merely spiritual at her disposal? I promise you, a switch to your backside, begging your eminence’s pardon, is the least of their arsenal. For titulary Brides of Christ, they can be quite devilish, indeed. But as I was saying, Lady Marcella was nun-handled on board, then confined to her quarters by the Lord Marco, who then proceeded to ignore her for the next several weeks. There is a severe shaking-about in the offing, and as you so cleverly adduced, there is the smell which, despite a lifetime living next to the open sewers that are the streets of Venice, a lady such as she is not quite accustomed to. Do you see my meaning?”

The Cardinal was visibly hesitating. “Do you mean, Señor Kendrick...?”

“I mean, my friend,” said Kendrick smoothly, “That the storms above will be as nothing like the storms here below, and if you do not wish to be the anvil upon which the feminine hammer of a roused Vulcaness vents her fury, I suggest you leave her Ladyship safely confined.”

The Cardinal stood for a moment as a wary look crept across his face. Warrior of God, indeed, snickered Kendrick to himself. You’re still a man, my friend, and there was never a man born that didn’t fear a woman’s raging above even a heathen horde. “Perhaps you are right, Señor Kendrick,” de la Noche said at last. “I will, I think...return to my cabin. With the air moving throughout the ship...I feel the smell has dissipated somewhat. Good day to you, my friend, and may God bring us all safely through His storm.”

“May He, indeed,” answered Kendrick, bowing his head slightly. That’s one you owe me, Lady, he thought as he watched de la Noche stumble off in the increasingly pitching ship.

And now, to find a place to rest my sea legs until this is over. Kendrick considered a bit, then patted his pouch, in which he felt the cheerful outline of a deck of cards. With a smile on his face, he made his way to Marco’s quarters.

In which Sir Kendrick speaks with Lady Marcella regarding current events.

The House of Marco series generated as part of developing character backstories for the white side of the Human Combat Chess game at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I play Sir Kendrick Vaughn, the White Queen.

“Well, Signore Kendrick, you are up quite early. You have not, I trust, slept badly?” Lady Marcella’s voice was a throaty contralto, with only a slight accent. She had learned well from her tutors, Sir Kendrick noted. A hint of amusement colored her tone.

“Not at all, my dear Signora, not at all! The beds of this house are a dream of Morpheus captured in goose-down - the occasion of nightmares on the part of the poor, shivering, denuded geese, I have no doubt, but I slept as easily as if I were cradled in my own dear mother’s arms.”

Lady Marcella smiled. “And do you yet sleep in such a bed, my lord? I would have thought your mother’s arms would be tired by now, such a big man as you’ve become.”

“Alas, no, Signora. Those encircling arms were taken from me many years ago, although I doubt not their owner eagerly looks forward to our anticipated heavenly reunion.” Sir Kendrick winked slyly. “Although, they might be waiting a goodly while longer than my earthly span, as wicked as I am - ‘tis by no means certain that the good St. Peter will be so welcoming to me as my doting mother. Nay, he might even take after my father’s somewhat more limited graces, and a back of the hand is all I can look for from that quarter.”

Lady Marcella laughed. The surrounding stone walls of the hallway, unused for many years to providing echoes for such a joyous sound, gave back the sound only grudgingly. “Not so, Signore Kendrick - Heaven would be cheating itself of a rare jewel were it to shut its doors to you. Look how early it is, and you are already dressed as for a ball. You will sit in the heavenly court, and advise supplicants to the Most High on the appropriate doublets to be worn in Paradise each season. I shall go to the Church of St. Mark - the della Biancos in days past have contributed much to the enlargement of the building and therefore to the glory of the saint.” She smiled. “I believe that means he owes me a favor.”

Sir Kendrick swept off his hat with a florid gesture and bowed deeply. “You do me too, too much honor, Signora,” he cried. His quick eye caught something - What’s this? Mud on your hem, lady? Someone’s been up and about earlier than I, it seems... “But I’m afraid that is enough, Signora. My doctor is a pompous bore of the old school, and has strictly warned me against too much flattery before the hour of noon. He swears it lends strength to unhealthy humors in the body, and leads to gout, gripe, and swelling - though of my head or his purse, I am by no means certain. Walk with me but for a few moments, and we will speak of healthier things.”

“With pleasure, Signore,” replied the lady, and with mightily suppressed yawn, the maidservant fell in behind them. They moved from the hallway to the portico, and Sir Kendrick set a stately pace. This side of the villa was thankfully still in shadow, the sun not yet risen high enough to peek directly at where they walked. Water slapped in a sluggish manner against the nearby quay, quietly enough that it failed to disturb the bearded old men drowsing in the shrinking shade.

“Before moving to lighter subjects, my lady, I fear I must wade once more through the gloom, and offer you my sincerest condolences upon the recent passing of your father. He was often in England, you know, and we became quite close.”

Lady Marcella bowed her head. “Thank you, Signore. He is...sorely missed.”

Sir Kendrick darted a sideways glance at her. “But I apologize - distressing you is the furthest thing from my mind. Let us speak of more cheerful things. I am informed that congratulations are in order - you are betrothed, are you not?”

A sigh was his only answer, and a snort from the maid behind. Kendrick threw a pointed glance over her shoulder, and the snort turned into a cough as the maid pretended to be enraptured by the sight of a family of ducks paddling sedately across the canal.

He addressed Marcella again. “My dear, I seem to have stumbled again into the murky waters of misery. Let us speak no more of it. Betrothal? I have never heard of such a thing, indeed.”

This earned him a wan smile, as she raised her head again.

“How does your brother, Lord Marco, these days? He - oh, sink me, if I haven’t distressed you again.” Kendrick stopped, drew himself up and laid his walking stick over his heart. “Signora, ten thousand apologies. For the crime of wiping from your face a lovelier smile than the one sported by the Milosian Venus herself, the sentence is the ultimate one - there is no other recourse. It is far too early to be knocking up the hangman, however - that would be discourteous indeed - so I shall simply have to throw myself off the nearest cliff.” He turned and moved determinedly off, but his determination faded after a few steps and then he hesitantly looked back over his shoulder. “Signora - a moment more of your time. Being but a humble visitor to Venice, I’m very much afraid I require the guidance of a native, such as yourself - pray, Lady, in what direction does the nearest cliff lie?”

Marcella felt a smile come to her lips again, and attempted to assume a demurely serious expression instead. “I am much afraid, Signore, located as we are on the coast, that the nearest cliff that would suit your purpose is at least several hours hard riding from here. I would hate to think that you would put your horse to such trouble on a day so hot as this, and I could not live with the death of such an animal on my conscience. - Pray you, sir, think of your horse on this hot day, and live.”

“Since you ask it, Signora, it shall be so,” declared Kendrick, moving back toward her and taking her arm in his. “But the sentence is simply delayed, not forgotten. You had better keep me as a guest for some time - a burden, I know - but on the overland journey back to England, the first decent outcropping I find will be the end of me.”

“In that case, Signore Kendrick, you should take advantage of the good ship of your own Royal Navy that is sitting in our harbor at present. A smooth sail this time of year for England, so I am told.”

Sir Kendrick put on a shocked face. “My dear Signora, do you mean to tell me that you have been aquainting yourself with the dockyards and the waterfront? That is hardly a seemly place for a lady such as yourself -”

“Why, my lord, this is Venice. You need only step out into the street to find how close we all are to the waterfront.”

“Yes indeed - as if those caterwauling gondoliers ever let us forget.”

“Shame, Signore Kendrick, you mustn’t speak that way about our gondoliers. They are the essence of Venice, our heart, our singing soul upon the waters. Surely you would be annoyed if I were to visit London, and speak disrespectfully of those Meat-eaters in front of the Palace.”

“Beef-eaters, Signora, and you are quite correct. Happily, you may soon be able to exercise your restraint in actuality. I mean to invite Lord Marco - and of course, the lovelier parts of his household - to my estates in England.”

In which we are introduced to Sir Kendrick Vaughn, an Englishmen visiting his business partner and friend Lord Marco della Bianco at his home in Venice.

The House of Marco series generated as part of developing character backstories for the white side of the Human Combat Chess game at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival. I played Sir Kendrick Vaughn, the White Queen.

It was going to be another hot day in Venice, and Sir Kendrick Vaughn was somewhat peeved. He stood in his dressing gown, gazing out at the city, already alive and grumbling with the fading hope of getting its business done before the real heat of the day began. The air was still, with the sullen feel that spoke of rain later - but spoke falsely, he knew. What little puffs of air made their steamy way into the room did nothing with regards to cooling him. This failure seemed, to his heated brain, to encapsulate all of the generalized unwillingness to put forth real effort that one found everywhere in these southern latitudes. Fancy ever getting weather this sultry even in southern Dorsetshire - and for simply weeks on end, too! Rank indulgence. Why, the weather in England was never allowed such liberties. A proper rain every day or so, thank you, and you can take your stifling heat away to the Canaries.

He was holding up well, however, despite the heat. This wasn’t something he needed to dwell on, as a frantic dowager duchess might spend desperate days constructing a facade suitable for a younger man’s entrapment. Not for him such extravagent wastes of energy. He simply arose in the morning with the unstated assumption that the epicycle of the world centered upon him. The world, impressed with such firm conviction, therefore went out of its way to prove him correct.

So it was that his servant Lorenzo found him - standing framed in the window’s arch, the rising sun stealing through the gauzy curtains to playfully dance about on his night-dress’ subtle tracery of gold thread. The brief gusts of air attempted to make up for their failure in the cooling arena by gently running through his hair, smoothing every follicle into place. The profile was straight off one of old imperial coins, and the pale blue eyes gazed keenly into the middle distance. The stern look upon the brow spoke of storms ahead, for Lorenzo if not for Venice, and he congratulated himself on being shrewd enough to bring a mandolin as well as the breakfast. His master would require cheering up, and a day without being shouted at, while rare, was always a cheerful day for Lorenzo.

The rumblings began immediately. “Not before time,” snapped Sir Kendrick. “Where have you been? No doubt up to no good with the scullery maid, you licentious little devil? I have been standing here for fully four minutes, I’ll have you know. Where I am from, I am accustomed for the servants to wait upon the pleasure of the master, not the other way around.”

“Sì, signore.” That was usually a safe answer, and it appeared to do the trick this time as well, for Sir Kendrick merely sniffed. Lorenzo bowed and was moving to the bed with the tray, but was interrupted.

“No, not in bed this morning. The air in this ghastly city comes straight from the flames of hell, and if I wrap myself up in more swaddling clothes, I’ll be better cooked than the venison at the Antonini’s ball last night - and that, my Lorenzo-who-is-always-late, was as black as Satan’s backside. Lady Antonini’s cook must be blind, or without his tongue, or both. No, I’ll eat at the table.”

Lorenzo smoothly changed directions and set the tray on the elaborately decorated desk that had been the writing desk of Lord Marco’s grandfather. Only recently deceased, Guiseppe della Bianco had been one of the most respected and feared Doge in the city’s history - and whether you respected him or feared him depended entirely on if you were doing what he wished or not. He had been the unquestioned Patrician in the della Bianco family, and Lorenzo - who overheard much and kept his opinions quietly to himself - suspected that the current head of the family was somewhat relieved to be rid of the domineering old man. Lord Marco, in a late-arriving act of rebellion, had consigned the writing desk to the guest bedroom, where its somewhat florid style suited Sir Kendrick perfectly.

Sir Kendrick sat and began to eat delicately, but almost immediately stopped and glared at Lorenzo. “May I inquire what that screeching racket is in aid of?”

Lorenzo, who had settled down on the divan to accompany Sir Kendrick’s breakfast with a lively air, stopped immediately and began to stammer. “Signore-”

“Did I ask,” continued Sir Kendrick, “To have my breakfast spoilt by the sound of two felines apparently being tortured to death?”

“No, signore.”

“If I had desired that, I could no doubt easily find the dirty back alley that houses the rest of your family and watch them at their uncouth sport. Now, silence, if you please!”

“Sì, signore.”

“That’s better.” Sir Kendrick returned to his breakfast, but it was clear after a short interval that his something other than hunger was weighing on his mind. Twice he stopped eating altogether and stared off into space. After the second time, he darted a glance at Lorenzo, then sighed.

“All right, you needn’t look so miserable, boy. I don’t intend to bite your head off any further today. Sit. And you can have the rest of my breakfast. This infernal heat steals my appetite quite away.”

Lorenzo needed no second asking. Though well treated by the della Biancos (His father, may his soul sit with God, had always said “Stick with the della Biancos, my son, and serve them well. They are a fine, fine family, and they treat us with the generosity of saints.”), a servant quickly learned never to turn down a free meal. Sir Kendrick rose from the table, watched him with an eyebrow raised as he tore through the remainder of the breakfast, then moved over to the armoire. Opening it, he perused it with a thoughtful eye, then removed one of the doublets and laid it carefully on the bed.

Lorenzo jumped to his feet. “Signore, per favore, that is my duty -”

“Quiet,” Sir Kendrick interrupted. “I will dress myself today. You will sit there and answer a few questions that are troubling my idle brain.”

“Sì, signore, but -”

“No buts. Now then,” said Sir Kendrick, pausing over the choice of hose, “You have worked for the della Bianco family for...how long now?”

“All my life, signore.”

“Yes, quite - you needn’t say it so portentiously, boy, as the count of your years hardly totals much of a sum yet. Not compared to some, at any rate.” He sighed. “Alas, the years ofmy youth have been outnumbered and ambushed long since by the vindictive years of my maturity. How old are you - fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Sixteen, signore. Seventeen in two months.”

“There will come a time when you no longer count off the time until your next birthday so eagerly, Lorenzo.”

“No, signore.”

“Did you know Lord Marco’s father, Lorenzo?”

“No, signore. He was hardly at home. He was often sent on important embassies by the old Lord Guiseppe, signore.”

“Constantly kept out from underfoot, eh? No, you needen’t answer that. Now, then, the eternal question - which boots today?” He tapped his upper lip, then glanced at Lorenzo again. “You needn’t answer that, either - but remember this: what often looks like mere foppery can often be a vital political tool - or a subtly deadly insult. The wrong boots, a cravat knotted improperly - these things have been the causes of wars before now. The wise man is he who sees the depth in the superficialities, Lorenzo.”

“Sì, signore.”

“Now then - yes, the black ones with the silver trim will do nicely, I think. Did the old Doge - Lord Guiseppe della Bianco - ever send Lord Marco on any embassies, Lorenzo?”

“No, signore. Never.”

“Interesting. And why not, do you think?”

“I don’t know, signore. Lord Marco was away at school much of the time - he only returned when Lord Guiseppe passed away.”

“And that was? Oh, hats, hats hats, damn all hats. Why do the milliners in this country insist on making them so very unflattering to the men?”

“I..I don’t know, signore...”

“Lorenzo, if you are going to serve in a great house, you are going to need to learn which questions are asked to be answered, and which are merely the master or mistress cruelly inflicting rhetoric upon you. When did the withered wretch release life from his arthritic claws and finally die?”

“Signore! I-”

“It is all right, Lorenzo. In my experience, the dead stay dead - if adequately killed - and unless I miss my guess the current Lord Marco shares more of my opinion of his grandfather than he is willing to let on. You have no rmore need to stick up for the old boy.”

“Eh...four years, signore. I remember, because that was the year that I climbed the church steeple on my birthday, and Padre Timothius found me, and-”

“How fascinating. You must remember not to tell me all about it sometime. There.” Sir Kendrick finished dressing, and held out his monocle and walking stick to either side, as if waiting for applause. Almost on cue, the doves roosting under the eaves burst into a hubbub of throaty burbling. Sir Kendrick glanced over his shoulder at them, and when he turned to face Lorenzo again, there was a faintly mocking smile on his face. “You see? My appearance, it seems, has the approval of the entire aviary. As the French say, et voila! I am dressed to kill.”

“...Sì, signore...”

“Don’t worry, boy, it’s only an expression. Well, I’m done with you for this morning. You can escape to the kitchens and regale the other domestics with stories about the horrible old Englishman. There, there’s a soldi for your trouble. Now, off with you.”

“Sì, signore! Grazie, signore!”

“Yes, yes. Boo! Scat! Flee, you imp!”

When Lorenzo’s echoing footsteps had died away, Sir Kendrick turned to his bed and slipped a hand under the pillow. When he removed it, the hand was holding a dagger. He looked at it thoughtfully, then slipped it quickly into a hidden sheath. Picking up his walking stick, he strode to the door, then stopped, taking a deep breath. When he moved again it was with the mincing step of the dyed-in-the-wool courtier and fop. He delicately closed the door behind him, and moved at a trot down the corridor in the opposite direction from which Lorenzo had taken. The interior corridors of the house were far cooler than his room, the solid stone walls doing sterling service in keeping the heat at bay. He toyed with the idea of asking the servants to move his bed into the hallway, that he might get a better rest, but the thought was driven from his head when he suddenly happened upon Marco’s sister - the Lady Marcella.