A Hot Summer Morning

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.