To 'Sup With the Mighty, [attn: Clover, Tris]

[Gervasi Amancio]

A soft splay of water hit his face, a cool mist that swirled about as it hit the wooden side of the Luna. Drifting in and out the white capped tops of the waves moved in a methodical motion that was both soothing and relaxing for Gervasi. The drift of the boat in time with its never ending cascade was gentle at the moment, a perfect night for the seaman. Behind him the bustling port of Aquitaine could still be seen in the distance, the huge city now only a small little dot. A smile spread across the captain’s face, another profitable day of trade in the city, and an extremely lovely day at sea. What more could the man ask for? Of course he was delighted to have such high ranking people onboard his ship for this passage, but sometimes they did tend to get in the way. So far they had shown to be no trouble, he didn’t think they would be either, they seemed upstanding people.

The large lumbering hull of the Galleon was full of fresh supplies, straight from the harbor and weighted down with all the goods he was taking with him to England. Of course Spain wasn’t in the best of relations with England, but they still where a major place of industry and power, and one of his key points of business so he still sold there. Some of his supplies left over from Spain were still on his ship, but those would he emptied out at England. A ripple of wind came down, beating at the sails and moving them along as Gervasi walked from the very peak of the ship where he had been standing back towards where the captain’s quarter and the guest cabins where. People all around him were walking around, tending to various things on board the ship to make sure that it kept going on course, and to make sure nothing went wrong. Their route at the moment was north-west and he had some times before he would need to do anything.

As he crossed in front one of the newer kids that he had hired on for an extra hand on deck the boy dropped an oil lamp on the ground. The shattering noise both angered and annoyed the captain. The boy looked horrified as he looked down at the shattered remains of the lamp and the oil all over the deck and back to Gervasi.

Angered the captain barked, “Well, don’t just set there gawking, get something to clean this up with. This’ll be coming out of your paycheck if you don’t hurry up about it.” The thick words of Spanish were taken by the boy quickly and he all but fell over his own feet going to get something to clean up the mess.

Muttering under his breath as he walked on past where the boy, and towards his place he figured that the boy would be afraid enough to remember not to do that the next time. Of course one lamp didn’t really matter, but it was the idea behind that made him yell at the boy. If everyone went around dropping things nothing would ever get done, so he had to make sure they knew that it was definitely not acceptable to drop things. Especially if that lamp had been lit, and he had dropped it, he could have risked the entire ship for one stupid little mistake. Those little things really bothered Gervasi if not done right, and whenever he saw them the always were corrected. Sighing as he pulled open the door to the inner hull of the ship he stepped along the boards that lead the way similar to a hall.

The ship itself was huge, and that meant that quite a few people were on board at once. Enough to run it, and keep it afloat all day and all night. The crew slept below in quarters that weren’t quite so nice as they were up here, but better then some on other ships he had seen, and owned. They all slept in one room, even if it was big that would make him claustrophobic at best, and it had when he had first gone into the business. On his ship he had reserved one of the guest rooms for his first mate, but his first ship had been much smaller the captain hadn’t even had guest rooms. Chartering the boat to people who needed to go along the route that he was already going was actually quite profitable, and helpful to them, so he might as well.

Running his fingers through his hair he let it fall back in place rather disorderly, but fine enough for him. It was wet with the salt water from the channel, and was sticking to his head slightly, looking as if he had recently gotten out of a shower. It was hard to keep anything from getting wet on a ship, even one like this. Typically everything was soaking with fresh sea water, at the moment it wasn’t soaking, but the water kept the air nice and humid at all time. Today had been a fairly good day considering that it was spring, and anything could happen at any moment. It had sprinkled a little this morning, and he had thought it would become a down pour, but his weather instinct proved to be wrong as it had become warm for the rest of the day. The light sprinkling had left just the right of moisture on the ground, just enough to water the flowers, crops, and grass, but not enough to flood anything. That was something that didn’t happen often, and then it had gone on to be splendid, overall the entire day had been good. Even if there had been a few moments in it where he wasn’t exactly pleased with what had happened.

Shifting the cutlass on his side so that it wasn’t quite as much in his way, he pressed on looking for the woman’s quarter first. The long saber at his side was an instrument of self-defense in most cases, and he hardly ever really used it. More for show then anything, he did know how to use it, his father had made sure of that early on, but other then pirates what was the need of it?

It was almost dinner time, and as was some odd tradition on his ship he liked to invite his guests to eat with him on his trips. The ritual itself didn’t really have a beginning it had just happened, but he liked to keep it like this, and he liked to know the people who were on his ship. The wooden boards creaked next to him as the ship moved through the water. Some of the crew members were down here, their eyes intent on what they were doing, but most were up on deck or doing something else below deck in the storage or sleeping quarters. Gervasi would need to get some more people, though, he was still short some of the basic necessities for the ship to run smoothly. Right now his crew was working hard, and still things were going too slowly, and he needed more hands to work it. He’d have to look for some more help once he got back to Spain, that was the only people he would trust. Also, if he got help from anywhere else they’d probably not be able to understand him half the time, and he wouldn’t have that.

In time he’d be able to buy more ships, which was his plan, but at the moment he had just this one, he did want to expand his trade. Perhaps even make an entire shipping company, but that was in the future. Right now his most concern was getting back to his house in Barcelona, which would probably be a couple more months, but that was okay with him. England was a nice place, even if he didn’t much mind for the people and he would probably take a small vacation there. If nothing else he would stay for the festival, it seemed like a fun thing to do, and it would probably help to do something more socially inclined.

Tacking one of his hands he knocked hard on the small wooden door that made way into the room that the Ms. Emma Hirst, he thought it was. It wouldn’t have been polite to just walk in on her, and upset her if she was doing anything.

Stepping back he said in a calm voice, “Ms. would it be okay for me to come in?” More out of politeness than anything else, he asked the vague question to her, almost considering just walking in, it was his boat. Of course that wouldn’t be courteous either, and he’d probably get slapped if she wasn’t ready for anyone to be in there. It might be worth it, but he didn’t really want that kind of thing going on with them before he had ever had a good chance to talk with her.

[Emma Hirst]

Emma had never had much of a mind for sailing. The only time she'd ever been on a boat, in fact, was during the initial crossing from England to Aquitaine. She'd gotten terribly ill, and so had associated misery with such seafaring. This time she had not the trouble as before, finding herself plagued by sea sickness only mildly at first until her stomach adjusted to the rhythmic swayings of the ship. Now she found the journey placid, almost pleasant in the peacefulness that the solitude of the sea afforded her. There was not the hustle and bustle here that one dealt with on a daily basis when at court; while there were sailors going about their business, they kept to themselves and performed their duties without disturbing the young miss just as the servants back on the Hirst estate did. Being aboard the Galleon was not unlike her residence at home when all was taken into consideration. In some ways it was better, if only because it was new and new places were always so fascinating and exciting.

The voyage was progressing smoothly, as much as could be hoped for. If all went well, then it would be a short trip across the English Channel. Emma could hardly wait. No more than a few days ago, she'd received an invitation from her sister, the Lady Margaret Howard, to come stay with them and accompany them to court in London. Her mother had been all out of sorts as a result for reasons that her daughter did not understand even now. Then there was much packing and preparations to be done, and they'd been in such a rush to depart that this was the only ship they could barter passage onto. Lady Hirst had been unhappy to be traveling on such a "common ship" as she'd put it, but Emma didn't mind; it was all the same to her. They were finally returning to England! In a few days time, she would be back upon the shores of her homeland, and then find herself in the company of her sister and cousins-in-law. Truly, that was something to be celebratory about. But then Emma was one to always see the bright side of a situation.

As night had fallen, her mother had ushered her below deck into their shared cabin. She didn't want Emma mingling with the sailors who she felt were filthy and below her noble standards. Again, this did not bother the easygoing girl for she saw the static moments as an opportunity to finally sit down and do some writing in her journal (which naturally she had brought). With her mother having fallen asleep, no doubt fatigued by her own raucous nature, she was able to withdraw the bounded notebook in order to record some of her more recent experiences. Of course these tales would be embellished, slightly, since that was typically her wont. Still, it helped her craft her literary skills while practicing her languages as she often wrote in other languages than her native one--French and Spanish being among them. As long as she did so, her mother allowed her her little hobby, seeing it as harmless if not helpful. Being intelligent made her worth more when it came to marriage, just so long as she knew when to be sharp-witted and when to feign stupidity. Apparently, men did not appreciate being outwitted or outclassed, so she'd been told.

It was dark inside their little cabin, and Emma had lit some candles to see by. She dipped her feather pen inside the ink well and then touched it to the paper, drawing nice, clean lines of letters on the blank sheet. It was time to begin her story.

17 March, 1514

Several days ago, I had the pleasure of meeting the Prince of Hearts at a banquet held by the King of Aquitaine. He was everything that Jane had said, and befitted the title that I have given him here. The Prince of Hearts was pleasant and kind, a gentleman as much as I knew him. I daresay that he was a good dancer as well for we danced together and he did not step on my feet once! He was handsome and though I do not know why he singled me out, I enjoyed the time that I spent with him. I should think that he will make a good husband to a lucky lady some day. A Prince as he deserves a Princess of his own. England may rest easy with one such as he in her employ.

A knock interrupted her thoughts and she scrambled to hide her journal. It was such a private thing, her journal, housing her innermost thoughts and feelings that she should be so utterly embarrassed should anyone spy its insides. Only Jane had ever been invited to read the content, but she had been her sister and best friend; Emma had trusted Jane. She trusted no one else, especially not some strange sailor or other. Placing the feather pen back into its ink well, she quickly blew on the page to dry the ink before closing the journal and slipping it back into the chest which housed the majority of the belongings that were coming with them to England. Gowns mostly, and precious few other essentials; no one would be sorting through them as it would be a most dreadful breach of protocol and so her secret journal would be safe and out of sight there, hidden. The knocking continued and, to her surprise, her mother continued to sleep. She supposed then that it was up to her to answer the door.

“Ms. would it be okay for me to come in?”

It was a good thing that Emma had not changed from her clothes into her sleeping shift since it would have taken time to get back into something appropriate enough to answer the door with. As it was, she wore a modest gown made of a fine material likely not suited for the sea; it was beige and did nothing to make her pale skin look less white. But it brought out the green of her eyes, making them seem startling against her Caucasian skin and blonde hair. With all the hectic movement, her face had grown a little flushed which helped to make her look less colourless. She straightened up, smoothing down any wrinkles in her skirts and then assumed a gentle countenance before opening the door and moving outside, closing it behind her. There was no point in waking her weary mother. Emma could handle whatever it was that the man wanted, provided his intentions were decent.

She recognised the man immediately as the captain of the ship they now traveled on. He was young, still handsomely boyish in looks, but had an experienced edge to his appearance regardless; she maintained a faith that he was familiar enough with ships and would see them safely to their destination as promised. The young woman gave a respectful curtsy as she acknowledged him. "Captain Amancio, my apologies for not having answered sooner," she said in her quiet voice as she kept her eyes cast humbly to the floor. "I was . . . occupied and my mother was resting. I believe the journey has tired her already, and I do not wish to disturb her. Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"

[Laurent de Valois]

Steel whispered softly in the cool air of the night, razor-sharp edges gleaming beneath the moon’s light. The man holding the elegant and intricately engraved sword was wearing only a loosely buttoned shirt, having long ago discarded his overcoat. Eyes closed and features tightened in concentration, the swordsman’s bare feet flitted quietly across the wooden deck as his blade twisted, looking as if gifted with life and singing a promise of death to those who knew how to listen. Sweat poured over Laurent’s face and shoulders, the gleam of it giving him the appearance of some knight from the old legends when under the moon’s stare. His muscles ached and he smiled, running through the patterns that were as familiar to him as his own breath – Obelhau , Mittelhau, Unterhau , the three hews taught by the ‘Art of Fighting’.

Pivoting abruptly on himself, the swordsman angled his arms diagonally and struck with a controlled savagery that would have torn straight through a man’s shoulder, shattering his bones and his guard in one fatal stroke. The patterns became increasingly more intricate, weaving themselves into the brutal hacks taught to the most talented swordsmen of the Imperial tradition – Zornhau , the Wrath Hew, Schielhau , the Squinting Hew and Kurmphau , the Crooked Hew. That the old germanic strokes danced in the skillful hands of a Frenchman would have seemed like heresy to many, but they flowed from his soul as if he’d been born for this particular waltz – and in many ways he had. War ran old and deep in the Valois blood, and in no Valois did it run deeper than Laurent. The weave reached its crescendo in a flash of cold metal before slowly dying out, leaving the young noble panting and faintly smiling.

Laurent let the wind caress his face, sighing comfortably – the aftermath of sword practice always left him feeling at peace with everything. In a world on the edge of chaos and war, it was a rare feeling and he relished it as such. The swordsman had learned long ago that for those who chose the path of the blade, death was a daily meal: it was that realization that had taught to enjoy the moment and let the consequences be damned. Sheathing his bastard sword, the noble’s eyes strayed for an instant to the lock of blond hair that was attached to the guard and something like grief shadowed his face for a second as his fingers caressed it tenderly.

“Stop being a fool, Valois,” he murmured softly to himself before shaking his head as if the melancholy could be thrown out of it by the movement.

Idly noticing he’d voiced the thought in English, the nobleman reflected that he’d spent too much time surrounded by them – it seemed their language, much like lice, spread when one stayed amongst their company for a while. Laurent counted himself lucky he hadn’t caught the lice, as the closest thing the British knew to a bath was that damnable rain that never left their country. The sooner he could go to London and put a few holes in that insolent gentleman he’d met near Bordeaux, the sooner he could return to civilized society, where beer was served cold and people spoke a refined tongue like French instead of that guttural throat-wounding that passed for the English language. Most people would have thought that for a French to travel to the court for the sole purpose of skewering a noble when France and England were at war was less than wise, but Laurent had never let such worries stop him before. He went wherever he felt like wandering, whether or not he was welcome was irrelevant – people who let themselves be bothered by such little details never did anything.

Slinging the sword over his shoulder and picking up his boots with his hands, the noble waved cheerfully at the deck hand, who seemed to be cleaning up a mess and looked at the French with bewilderment. Laurent chuckled and made for the entrance to the inner hull – as far as nobility went, he supposed he was rather laid-back. He’d travelled, drank, eaten and spoken with commoners for over a year, causing a distinct relaxing of the few aristocratic traits he’d been bred into since his childhood. Even as a child he’d been more at ease with his father’s soldiers than at the court and it seemed that characteristic would stay as he grew older. He was wandering under the guise of being the third son of minor Lord near Alençon, so his sense of decorum could be as lax as he wanted it to be – he enjoyed speaking with the seamen and they already seemed to be warming up to him if the bottle of rum he’d shared with a few of them earlier was any indication.

Whistling an old ballad from his childhood, the noble went down the stairs and took a few turns, reaching for where he remembered his quarters to be – after a few minutes, however, it appeared he was both lost and confused. Catching the sound of a door opening and people speaking, Laurent poked his head around the corner and his eyes fell on the galleon’s captain, a Spaniard that looked in his late twenties, who was speaking to a young woman with blond hair he couldn’t see very well from where he stood. Walking nonchalantly towards the small gathering, the French nobleman paid no heed to the fact that all he was barefooted, still armed and only wearing a loose white shirt on his upper body. He’d never cared much for those little etiquette rules about appearance, and he was on a ship, for God’s sake – he couldn’t be expected to maintain the whole noble decorum thing on a drifting piece of wood, could he?

“Ah, Captain Amancio. I seem to have taken a few wrong turns, would you kindly direct me towards my quarters?” the swordsman asked in barely accented English, flashing both the woman and the seaman an easy smile.

[Gervasi Amancio]

Light, its gentle cascade brushed the walls, and left shadows that danced behind the figures that walked about. A droplet of water fell down gently from the ceiling, the soft ping fell on the ground, it’s sound penetrating his ear. The sound of his fist hitting on the side of the door made a loud thud, not quite as loud as he could have made it, but loud enough for someone inside to hear. Lightly, the door swung open, it’s hinges making a slight squeak at the first movement. A young face appeared in the doorway, a young woman that probably wasn’t even in her twenties yet. Gervasi would say that this was Emma, he had thought that her mother was staying in another room, but he must have guessed wrong for he could slightly see her on the inside of the room. Still, it was rude to look in so he tried to center is eyes the younger girl.

"Captain Amancio, my apologies for not having answered sooner,"

The words were in an English accent, much different from most of the people on this ship. Of course Gervasi himself could speak fluent English, as well as many other languages, which had taught to him as a young boy. In a light voice he told her, “That’s okay, ma’am.” The blond wasn’t quite as tall as him, and he had to slightly look down at her to get a good glimpse even though Gervasi himself wasn’t the tallest of men in the world. For the most part she seemed simple, nice, and in all eloquent. Being a daughter of a lord she was probably very well taught in the manners of higher standards, and the captain could relate to that in many ways. No doubt she was a little more groomed for the higher life, but it didn’t matter anyway, many years on the sea had changed him. Even the nightgown she had on was nicer then the clothes that the captain was wearing at that moment, which were nicer then a normal commoner would wear. The man wandered what her mother was like, and if she was responsible for her daughters’ high standards.


“…..Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"

The captain wasn’t much worried about the mother she was probably just seasick. Gervasi himself had never had to trouble himself with that kind of ailment. The captain had always found the sea much more comforting then even land was. Stepping back a few steps from the door he smiled as he toned in, “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, if she needs anything I would be obliged to help.” The words were true, he knew of some home remedies for most things, and he did have a medic on board that although not really the best the man knew a lot about what he did. Either way he went on, “Although I came to invite you to dine with me tonight. I understand if you wish to decline because of your mother, but it’s something I like to do with each of my passengers.”

The sound of someone’s voice caught his attention and he looked over towards the man that had made an appearance. The other passenger was in front of him, looking to be in his early twenties, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, he wasn’t much older then the girl. A little older then he was, of course, but he couldn’t be that much older. There was no doubt that he was a French man, filthy things, of course he wouldn’t say that to him aloud, but he had never had much love for the people. Perhaps this man might surprise him a bit, and be unorthodox in some way or another. By the looks of it he had recently been out doing something very active, and he was hardly dressed properly. Still, it was a ship and most of his crew members were worse off then he was, which would make him a hypocrite if he voiced his complaint.

“I seem to have taken a few wrong turns, would you kindly direct me towards my quarters?”

The man seemed nice enough, he would probably get along with him as long as he didn’t turn out to be just playing at things. “I do believe that it‘s down that hall,” He said pointing in the general direction of place where he believed the man’s quarters were. “If you have nothing to do tonight you might want to join me for dinner, it’s something I like to asks my guests.” The invitation wasn’t quite as friendly, but he did like to ask anyway. Looking at both of the, he silently waited for an answer.

[Emma Hirst]

Despite the dim light of the hallway, Emma could gather a clear enough view of the Captain of the Luna Azul. He was tall, lean and was tanned by what she figured was the amount of time he'd spent at sea. The closeness of the hallway kept them within proximity of one another, not in any way that would be considered indecent even by her mother's strict standards, but near enough that she could catch wind of his scent; she was glad that he was unlike most sailors that she knew or had heard of and seemed to bathe since he didn't smell any worse than wet wood (which she could only attribute to his residence on board the boat). Even if his name hadn't given him away, through his accented words she would have known him to be of Spanish origin. This seemed a little strange only because he did not look so much Spanish, but then she had not met many Spaniards in her day so she was truly no good at being a judge of such things. From what she'd observed, he was competent and he was kind, and that was really all that mattered to the young girl. Unless he acted to the contrary, she would have to assume he was of good character.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother, if she needs anything I would be obliged to help.”

She smiled at his generosity. "Thank you, Captain Amancio, you concern is greatly appreciated. I do, however, believe that the best remedy for her is sleep at present. I should let her have her rest and then if she does not feel better, I would be happy to have the help of your ship physician." Truth be told, she did not know if there was any such man on board but most vessels seemed to have a medic of some sort or another; it seemed a reasonable enough assumption to make. And besides, the trip was not that long; if it was seasickness, they would soon be on land and it would be cured instantaneously. If it was anything worse, they would still reach the mainland where a proper physician could take care of her. Emma believed her mother simply to be fatigued from the last minute decision to depart from Aquitaine to England and all the maddened preparations that had been done as a result. Lady Hirst was nothing if not resilient and given some time to rest, her daughter was sure that she would back up and about in a few hours time.

“Although I came to invite you to dine with me tonight. I understand if you wish to decline because of your mother, but it’s something I like to do with each of my passengers.”

The blonde beauty quirked her head to the side, a few locks of her golden hair escaping her updo to frame her face. She tried to ascertain his intentions. They seemed decent enough but her mother frequently warned her of the trickery of men. So far she had seen nothing that would have her believe ill of the Captain, but that did not mean that he was of flawless reputation. Emma knew she trusted too easily and too quickly. She did not want to do anything that would harm her honour or hurt her family's name. At the same time, though, she did not want to offend her so gracious host. The man had done them a favour by allowing them aboard his ship with so late a notice, and to turn down his invitation on account of silly fears seemed rude to her. It wouldn't be wise to go alone with him--she knew better than that; one of the first lessons that she'd been taught was never to go anywhere without some sort of chaperon or escort--but neither did she believe waking her mother to be a good idea. This was quite the predicament, it was. If he had been of the English gentry, then it might have been alright . . . but he was a sailor, Spanish at that, and neither were known for their upstanding morals.

“I seem to have taken a few wrong turns, would you kindly direct me towards my quarters?”

Fortunately, it was at that moment that another gentleman appeared, thus sparing several more seconds for Emma to deliberate on what to do. However, that wasn't what she put her mind to, finding the appearance of the stranger too distracting. Curious by nature, she peeked around the Captain to see an even larger man. He had an entirely different look to him. Edgy was the word that she'd likely use to describe him. And sweaty, which she had to wrinkle her nose at. This man could be a sailor, but seeing as he didn't know the way to his own quarters, she did not think so. Emma didn't think that the handsome man looked Spanish either, and this was confirmed by his silky French accent. He flashed them both a smile to which Emma returned, sincere as ever. She did so love the French! Even if they were synonymous with immodesty, they were ever so fascinating with their trends and styles. Their language was also undeniably beautiful, too. Unlike most of her English kin, she found the French amusing if only by the stories that she'd been told of their vivacious court. They said that there was never a dull moment to be found in the court of King Francis I.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," she greeted cordially, hoping that her French was as good as she believed it to be. There could be no helping the little bit of an English accent that slipped into it, though. Hopefully, she would not make a complete fool out of herself. Mayhaps he might appreciate her attempt at his romantic language if nothing else. "Comment allez-vous?"

". . . If you have nothing to do tonight you might want to join me for dinner, it’s something I like to asks my guests.”

Oh, yes. Back to her problem then: whether to accept the invitation or not, wake her mother or let her sleep. It was not often that Emma was faced with decisions such as this; usually her parents dictated what she did and did not do. She was good at being obedient, not so good at being independent. That was what happened when you relied on the tutelage of your elders for as long and as much as Emma had. In the end, however, she decided to take the initiative upon herself and accept the invitation. Surely, it couldn't hurt? "It would be our pleasure to join you. Let me just wake my mother, excuse me," she said as she retreated back into the room to rise her mother. The Lady Hirst wasn't as eager as Emma to attend dinner with two ruffians, especially when one was a Spaniard and the other a Frenchman, but the daughter was finally able to persuade her mother after a few moments of private debate. They both reemerged from the room within moments, ready to follow the Captain to his mess hall or dining room or wherever it was that they were to eat.

Emma looked at Captain Amancio expectantly, prompting him to lead the way. "At your leisure, Captain," she said before casting another glance in the direction of the Frenchman to see if he was coming as well.

[Laurent de Valois]

“I do believe that it‘s down that hall,” the Spaniard answered, pointing in the opposite direction of where Laurent had been heading for the last few minutes.

The Frenchman’s lips quirked into a self-derisive smile – his sense of orientation had never been his greatest asset. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d gotten lost during his vagabondages, but some of his most interesting experiences had taken place off the road. That gentleman from Toledo, for example, who’d argued most vehemently that the rapier lessons he’d taken in his native city would be enough for him to strike down any slow and clumsy knight of the Imperial tradition. It had been most satisfying for Laurent to demonstrate the extent of that statement’s foolishness – a hand wound and a broken tooth had been the only consequences of the Italian’s bragging, but the Frenchman knew the dimwit would never speak ill of the Kunst des Fechtens again. That look of terror on his face when he’d realized that Laurent’s bastard sword moved faster than his own puny metal stick still warmed the swordsman’s heart after all this time.

“If you have nothing to do tonight you might want to join me for dinner, it’s something I like to ask my guests.”

“It would be a most welcome distraction,” the nobleman agreed pleasantly.

He wasn’t one much for the irritatingly ceremonial dinners most of his rank seemed to delight in, but Laurent doubted the captain would be an advocate of such etiquette – while the Spaniard held himself with the grace of an educated individual, he was still obviously of low extraction. After all, no noble worth his salt would be caught commanding a ship carrying something as common as merchandise – it would require of said noble to do something productive, and doing something with their lives was the prerogative of the peasants. There were days Laurent hated nobility, in all its flamboyant uselessness. The only important duty they ever carried out was waging war for the King, and there was no need to be born in castle for that. If he ever chose to return to Alençon and assume control of his Dukedom, the swordsman promised himself he’d do more than tax his subjects and throw receptions. His equals seemed to have forgotten that while the people served nobility, nobility also held the sacred obligation of serving the people. And contrary to what most aristocrats seemed to think, starving their subjects wasn’t an adequate fulfillment of that obligation.

"Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous?"

The slight surprise of hearing someone addressing him in his native tongue made the dark-haired noble turn towards the lady addressing him. The sentences had been perfectly understandable, if a bit accented – but as the lady obviously had been cursed by God with the misfortune of being born English, he would try not to hold it against her. Not too much, in any case.

“Parfaitement bien, Mademoiselle. Qu’en est-il de vous?” he answered cheerfully, delighted that at least one Englishwoman had grasped that her language was to French what chamber pots were to Provence wine.

Taking the time to study his interlocutor, the nobleman’s eyes met the lady’s brilliant green ones, surrounded by a mass of blond locks – she was quite stunning, but Laurent remembered another blonde beauty and raw anguish twisted his features for an instant before disappearing as if it had never been there. Composing himself by picking at his shirt, the swordsman shot a rueful look at his clothes and decided it was long past time for him to take a bath and a change of garments. Nodding his respects to Amancio and the lady whose name he had yet to learn, he took his leave and made for his quarters.

It took him barely a minute to find them when walking in the right direction, and Laurent was greeted by the excited barks and pawing of his two dogs as soon as he opened the door. Nearly knocked down by the two massive Great Danes, the nobleman laughed and ruffled their fur affectionately, getting whines of delight in response. Phobos and Deimos eventually settled down, letting the swordsman to throw his shirt on his bed and wash himself with the water in his bassinet. A bit of soap and cold water later, he felt entirely refreshed and garbed himself in some of his most respectable clothes – an immaculately clean white shirt doubled of a grey overcoat that, while not as flashy as what was favoured at the court, had obviously been cut for him. After a second’s hesitation, the noble took his swordbreaker and sheathed it at his side – he did not truly expect fighting, but he’d taken the habit of never being unarmed on the road and it had saved his life more than once. With a few moments of goodbye petting to his war hounds, the cleaned up Frenchman caught up to the gathering, idly noticing that an older woman – the lady’s mother? – had been added to the merry little group. By the time he’d caught up to the assembly, the blonde beauty was speaking up again.

“At your leisure, Captain.”

He answered the look he was shot after that with a slight raising of his eyebrow and a half-smile before adding a few words in the same softly accented English as earlier.

“Indeed, please lead the way.”



((“Parfaitement bien, Mademoiselle. Qu’en est-il de vous?” - "Perfectly well, Miss. And yourself?"))

[Gervasi Amancio]

“It would be a most welcome distraction,”

Well, that made three of them if the mother didn’t come, and if she did all the better. Gervasi wasn’t entirely sure what they would be serving for dinner, but it was usually good. Occasionally they did tend to serve capers, which he would admit he didn’t much like with anything, much less by themselves. They tasted like someone took a leathery piece of paper and put it in his food, which he wasn’t all that fond of himself. So, he had rather firmly suggested that they take that off the menu, but he still found it showed up occasionally. Those were the days that he found himself wishing he had a new cook how didn’t like to ‘broaden his horizons’, but he was the best he could find. In a way he thought that his crew was superb, although not the best, it was definitely worth notability in his book, and he’d been on a lot of ships in the past few years.

Their subtle talk in French wasn’t something that he though he should get caught up in, and if they thought he didn’t know what they were saying because of it, that might be helpful. The conversation itself wasn’t really all that exciting, it was just them two being polite. A talk that would probably be forgotten about when they turned the corner, and he probably would too. Although, he must have been a little rusty on his French, for while he knew basically what they were saying he didn’t understand a few of the words. It didn’t take away from the overall meaning, but it did take him a second longer to piece it all together. It was sometimes odd, being around so many people speaking so many different languages, but sea life had tuned most of his linguistic skills to make it much more second nature for him to speak a few languages.

First, the Frenchman quietly left their presence, heading off towards his rooms, which he hoped was to get cleaned up. Speaking of which, Gervasi himself might need to be cleaned up a bit, but he didn’t have the time just then.

"It would be our pleasure to join you. Let me just wake my mother, excuse me.”

With that the woman left, and he was left alone for a second, to wait patiently for them to come back and greet him again. It was odd that she was going to get her mother, though, it didn’t seem like something the rich woman would want to do, especially if she was sick. Perhaps his first impression on her was wrong, but he doubted it, the girl would probably be the only reason she was coming, if she was at all. Which, for the state of his crew, although what he considered nice, would not be acceptable for anyone of notable standing in society. They were mostly alcoholics who had been picked up for what they were able to do with out any kind of back ground check or any proof of what they said. If they were willing to work then he’d let them off, but if they intended not to they would get booted off pretty fast. The lady may not approve of them, but he doubted they gave much thought to her except if she happened to be good looking, then they might be little backside wagers.

Finally the young woman came out of the door, her mother right behind her looking rather disgruntled as he said, “Greetings my lady.” A smile shown across his face as he looked at her, and a moment after they came out the man was back. Looking finer, and at least a little more regal then when he left Gervasi approved of it at least.

“Indeed, please lead the way.”

With them both ready to go, and Gervas with no particular reason to stay, he gestured towards the private room they would be eating at chiming in, “Right this way ladies, and gentleman.” Walking the way that he had gestured, he felt like some sort of guide as he lead the way. It seemed like the halls were empty at this time, nobody was really walking through, which Gervasi found odd. Still, he pressed on as the doors came up in front of him. They weren’t anything magnificent, although nicer then some of the other doors on the ship they were simply two doors that swung out. Twisting the handles at the same time he swung them open in one quick flick of his wrist.

Walking in with big strides he said, “Please just sit anyway, make yourself at home.” The room’s main décor, and the only one worth noting, was the large table in the center that fit probably eight, although it might be a tight fit. On the long table a few trays were already set out for them, filled with perhaps one of his favorite foods Snow Crab legs. Although a delicacy on the ship it seemed only to be served on occasion, and it seemed that his guests today were lucky. Although some might consider them messy and hard work for little meat, the ending result is worth all the struggle, and isn’t part of the sweetness the fact that you had to work hard to get at it. Of course if they preferred there was bits that were already laid out, but that was probably because they had heard the lady was coming, that wasn’t normally something that happened. Although word traveled fast on a ship, and this entire feast was probably set up to impress the lady aboard.

Sitting down on one of the ends, which was only made to accommodate one unlike the rest of the table, he politely waited for the rest to come and sit as he added in a nice warm tone, “Ahhh, it seems that we have been treated nicely today.”

[Emma Hirst]

“Parfaitement bien, Mademoiselle. Qu’en est-il de vous?”

Emma was glad to see the Frenchman respond well to her use of his language. It had been some time since she'd had an opportunity to speak any foreign languages since English and Latin were the ones primarily spoken in Aquitaine. At the court there, you could always find a few foreign dignitaries or men and women who were merely passing through the country, but they rarely were willing to spare a few moments to speak with her. She came from a good family, true enough, but she was nothing in her own right. A lady by birth, yes, but there was no title for her excepting what came with being the daughter of the Lord and Lady Hirst. Not to mention the reality that Emma was a shy girl who rarely engaged others in conversation unless prompted to do so by her parents, or by necessity. She liked people, she really did; she just had trouble conveying her thoughts and feelings in a way that was both polite and dignified, that would hold attention instead of make her seem boring. Such was the difficulty that she was learning to overcome with the assistance of her family and friends.

"Très bien, aussi. Merci de demander," she replied with a soft smile in her usual, gentle tone. Had she been one who favoured talking, she likely would have continued if only to practice her French repertoire. As it was, though, Emma had never been one to speak just for the sake of hearing her own voice as some others she knew from court. Her mother, for example. The elder Hirst lady was one who very much liked being the center of attention, having once been a social butterfly in the swirling life that was the English court. It was how she'd met and married Emma's father, the Lord Hirst. As unpleasant as her mother could be at times, she still liked to pretend and act as though she was still as young as Emma and just as beautiful and entertaining. Perhaps Lady Hirst was trying to live vicariously through her daughter; it would explain her determination to see Emma excel and make a good match. But such thoughts and suspicions rarely flitted across the young girl's mind since she did not concern herself with anything other than present, more often than not.

When the two women reemerged from the room, they both looked ready to follow Captain Amancio, though her mother was a little less than willing. Skeptical as always, she was filled with doubt as to what the Captain really wanted with their company since they had merely bought passage, not paying nearly well enough for first class service like this. When it came to her daughter, the mother was fiercely protective of her kin, especially since most of her hopes for the future rested on the young blonde girl. If Emma made a good enough match, the Hirst family would be set with income and support coming from the Howard side of the family as well as whatever side Emma joined with. If Emma failed to marry into a proper family, that would leave the Hirsts significantly less well off than they otherwise would be. It was survival, really, if not politics. This, too, though, was fairly unknown to Emma; she just believed her mother to want the very best for her, nothing more complicated than that. Of course that was only half the story, but still.

She hadn't meant anything by the inquisitive look that she'd given the Frenchman but his raising his eyebrow in response made her feel as though she'd been nosy. Blushing a little, she quickly turned back away, pretending she hadn't just gotten caught looking. It was innocent curiousity, truly, but many people rarely interpreted a look or gesture as such. Everyone seemed to see deceit or trouble in a glance or action at court, and it seemed to be the same way everywhere else. How strange it was to the young girl who'd grown up mostly sheltered from the wily ways of society. Then again, this man was French and they were known to be quite . . . immoral, so she'd heard. As much as she knew she shouldn't be, she was curious about him and his lifestyle. There were always so many rumours about the French floating around; it was hard to know what was truth and what was fabrication. Maybe she could learn something about her French neighbours through this man. There couldn't be any harm in a few questions, right?

“Indeed, please lead the way.”

“Right this way ladies, and gentleman.”

The good Captain began to lead them through the labyrinth that was the interiour of the ship and Emma stuck close to her mother as they trailed after the two men. Her hand reached out to the sides of the hallway, her balance off because of the rocking of the ship. Occasionally she'd pitch too far forward and have to lean back abruptly to keep on her feet. Apparently she hadn't acquired her sea legs yet. While unsteady, she still managed well enough, her good breeding allowing her to keep her chin up and maintain a simple grace as she moved. Ships really didn't agree with her very much, but that was okay because she didn't tend to spend much time on them anyway. The land was here home, England more than any other, and she was more than content to live the entirety of her days in some nice manor off the coast where while she could see the waves, she didn't have to float atop them. Sometimes she wondered if people were ever meant to sail at all, to combat the sea and force their will upon it. It just didn't seem natural if you asked her, but nobody ever asked her. About much of anything, really.

“Please just sit anyway, make yourself at home.”

Emma and her mother did as proposed, seating themselves closest to the door. The room was larger than most she'd seen on a ship, but still cramped enough to make moving about it a tad bit difficult . . . especially with the large, ornate table located in the middle of it. Food was organised atop the table in a fashion that was simple, yet elegant; much better than she'd expect from sailors, but still not up to par when compared to the way court dining was. Still, she hadn't been expecting much of a meal at all while during this short trip so this was a delight, regardless. And Emma was starved, not having had much of a chance to eat since they'd set off from their Aquitine home to the port.

“Ahhh, it seems that we have been treated nicely today.”

"Please, give our compliments to your chef, Captain," Emma said, not even having tasted the food yet. It was customary, at least in her eyes, to give thanks for a meal whether it was delicious or not. Be grateful for everything and never take anything for granted, that was what her Christian upbringing had taught her if nothing else. "And thank you again for your hospitality." The young woman then looked over to her mother whom had begun to eat already, having silently given grace for the food; Lady Hirst gave a small nod to Emma signaling that what she'd said was appropriate. So far, so good. Emma strove to please her mother in all things as it was the least she could do for the woman whom had given her life and had taken care of her all her seventeen years.

Once more curious, however, she had to ask her question of the Frenchman. "If you don't mind me asking, Sir, what brings you to England?" she said, looking at the Frenchman with a wide, inquiring gaze.

[Laurent de Valois]

The young woman blushed and looked away when he stared back at her, prompting his half-smile to bloom into a full one. That was really quite adorable of her, she must be rather shy to be flustered as a simple glance. It would impolite to make it too noticeable, however, and Laurent smoothed the amusement out of his face as his father had often tried to teach him – it was Master Willham, the gruff and terse German knight, who had eventually imparted the lesson of control to the swordsman. His features too often revealed his intentions in a fight, he’d been told, and since then he’d learned to impose the neutral detachment on his face that was befitting of a noble. He followed the Spanish sailor in silence, stifling a chuckle when he saw that the blonde beauty was having some difficulties walking, even if she made a brave attempt at keeping her chin up.

The Frenchman had never had similar issues with ships, mainly because being able to keep his footing in any situation was one of the aptitude that had been drilled in his head with the single-minded ferocity of the Imperial tradition. His destrier, however, had not shown similar adaptability and was sulking somewhere in the belly of the galleon, looking sick and miserable. Though to be honest Pégase looked gloomy even in his best moods – the white destrier warhorse was the most depressing beast Laurent had ever encountered. He’d bought it for that very reason as he found the idea of riding a chronically depressed horse highly amusing.

“Please just sit anywhere, make yourself at home.”

The noble navigated the cluttered room – it was still quite wide compared to what most ship had to offer, he noticed – with the nonchalant grace of a born aristocrat, eliciting to take the farthest seat so that the women wouldn’t have to suffer the discomfort of moving around too much. As the only Frenchman aboard, it was his duty to maintain the notion of French gallantry – and no matter how estranged from his kingdom he might be, Laurent was French at heart. Too many golden memories were associated with Alençon, even if he did not see himself coming back to his title for a long time. The dishes were elegantly presented, if a bit frugal in appearance. Laurent had long ago lost taste for the heavy luxuries of the Court, however, and he much preferred this to the gypsy theatrics that would be a dinner back in Paris.

“Ahhh, it seems that we have been treated nicely today.”

"Please, give our compliments to your chef, Captain. And thank you again for your hospitality."

“I must agree with Mademoiselle, Captain. My thanks for the delicacy,” the nobleman agreed as he sat down.

Merrily eyeing the Snow Crab legs, Laurent set about to liberating them of their shells. Breaking and severing the parts with the cutlery, the Frenchman bared the soft meat to the air with the practiced manners of someone used to dining in high company. His manners were as polite as befitting of a noble, but there was something enthusiastic about him that made them seem more lively – his mother had always despised that side of him and tirelessly tried to crush it out. It had never quite worked, much to her chagrin. Casually drying his hand with the serviette, he was distracted from his efforts by the young woman’s voice.

"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, what brings you to England?"

Taking a sip from his cup of wine, the swordsman chose his words with some care – he doubted anyone would associate him with Laurent de Valois, the Duke of Alençon who’d been missing for a little above a year, but not giving away too much was important. Not to mention that the affair that brought him to England could be considered a bit violent for someone unused to the harsh realities of the war.

“Call me Laurent, giving me a title makes me feel as old as my father,” he answered with a half-smile.

The Frenchman idly turned his wine cup, letting the liquid breathe a little – the bottle had been opened too recently, it would be a shame to waste it by not letting its true taste come to surface.

“As for the reason of my presence in England, I met a gentleman near Bordeaux and we… disagreed on a few subjects. It became a matter of honour and I am to meet him in Court in a week to settle the issue,” he finished, as the half-smile bloomed again.

[Gervasi Amancio]

Taking one of the long legs of the crab he delicately held it in his hands, only to brutally crush it to get to the meat on the inside. Keeping close to his manners he worked among the red outer shell to produce the white meat that came from the encasement. Keeping in mind all the accepted and disapproved methods of eating he picked away at the food, trying to note his guests as much as often while he ate. For the most apart, though he thought that he could get away with eating for just a little bit before he had to really engage in any conversations. No one would blame them unless he was directly spoken too, which hadn’t happened yet except for the first few things but he had been able to nod and smile to answer those. Gervasi, although raised among nobility, wasn’t always the best socialite even if he had done this a thousand times before. It still felt odd, he was a sailor, not someone to be dressed up and put on the spot, but this was much better then eating along in this room.

The Frenchman had instantly began eating, and the woman had as well, it seemed as if this Ms Emma was the only one who had decided to hold off on her food. It seemed as if she was more interested in probing into the life of the Frenchman then actually eating, which was backwards for Geravsi. The captain wasn’t particularly interested in much about this conversation, but he did listen, figuring he might learn something worth noting. Traveling on a boat most of his time did have other disadvantages as well, the world could explode in war and famine and he wouldn’t have a clue until the next time he set anchor in a port. Which was another reason he liked these dinners, there was only so much you could learn from a few mixed gossip at a bar before you had to get back to the ship. Most of that was rubbish anyway, about as reliable as a boat with a gaping hole in it.

“Call me Laurent, giving me a title makes me feel as old as my father,”

This man, although definitely of noble birth seemed to wish to deny any title or name that would exalt him above a normal peasant, even though he was French. It wasn’t like he had heard anything about him other then that his name was Laurent and that he apparently wanted to eat with them. Now, slowly he was beginning to wonder about this man a little more every second. Why was he going to England? England and France weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye on well, any matter at all. They were constantly bickering back and forth between each other, though, and it seemed as if they wouldn’t stop until one totally eradicated the other. Spain itself had good enough relations with most of it’s surrounding countries, except for the damned Portuguese, but they hardly counted as a country.

“As for the reason of my presence in England, I met a gentleman near Bordeaux and we… disagreed on a few subjects. It became a matter of honour and I am to meet him in Court in a week to settle the issue,”

Interesting, a Frenchman worried about his honor? Gervasi hadn’t been sure they had such a thing in French till just then. Either way, it seemed as if this man was out for blood in some ways, which did make things a bit more interesting. In the back of his mind he wondered what this disagreement was, it seemed as if he was reluctant to say at best. If he dared to press on it could just make friction between the two, which was honestly not something that he wanted at the moment, the smoother this went, the better. Still, he was going to dare to push a little bit farther then that, just to see.

“I’m interested, what is it that you do that would lead you to Bordeaux?” The words were calm and he hoped they weren’t taken the wrong way, he was just curious.

Taking another bite of the crab he kept his eyes looking in the general direction of Laurent, as was just common courtesy to look at the one you spoke to. Hoping to arouse some more conversation from the man to lead him towards answering more of the questions of what he was. It wasn’t really an interrogation, but it was similar in some ways.

[Emma Hirst]

The assortment of food arranged before them did indeed look delectable despite not having the same dignified manner of serving like at court. Ranging from the rare, like the snow crabs, to the mundane, like the salad, it all looked edible if nothing else. Food poisoning was the last thing on Emma's mind, though, and she had full confidence in the chef who'd prepared the meal. As far as she knew, people strove to be their best in everything they did, as she did, and the same could be said for even the lowliest of peasants. She assumed that the cook would have taken pride in the food that he served, and thus that it would be safe to consume. Add unto that that the young miss was quite starved; she wasn't about to be picky as some nobles might have been. On a ship, she supposed that she should be pleased with whatever she got since luxury didn't tend to keep company with life at sea, as far as she'd been told. With slender fingers, she picked up her utensils and began to eat, taking her time and savouring the dainty bites that she took.

“Call me Laurent, giving me a title makes me feel as old as my father.”

Emma smiled at this, but checked herself quickly, her face smoothing back into a serene and almost indifferent expression. He was amusing, this Frenchman. She didn't see what her mother had against the French other than the inbred enmity belonging to those of English born. The young lady herself found them to be interesting, ever entertaining--what few she had met and spoken with, at least. At one time, she'd had a French tutor to teach her the language and Emma had liked her very well. It was such a misfortune that someone in her family should take ill at the same time as one of her father's servants and both would have to leave the Hirst family. Neither of her parents had seemed sad to see them go either, she'd always thought that strange but c'est la vie (that was a French saying, also taught to her by her former tutor; it meant "that's life!"). So this Laurent fellow then was yet another prime example of those belonging to France. Emma couldn't help her curiousity, but she could at least try and keep it stifled. If only to avoid a reprimand from her mother.

"As you wish," she replied. "Laurent." The name was nice, but then most French names had a suave elegance to them; their language in general was rather romantic, at least by Emma's standards. It seemed to flow and roll, like the waves in the ocean, like the waves that they sailed across right now. A genuine, natural beauty could be found in speech that was French--even insults often seemed less so when spoken in such a graceful language. But . . . Laurent (it still seemed strange for her to speak of a man's name instead of his title as was proper etiquette, as she'd done for so long) seemed to be a gentleman, she did not expect any poor manners from him since he'd shown his civility so far. Aside from being a bit messy when they'd first met, he looked cavalier enough. In the good way, though, and not the bad way.

". . . It became a matter of honour and I am to meet him in Court in a week to settle the issue."

Tilting her head to the side, she regarded him with an inquisitive gaze as she ran his words through her mind. A matter of honour . . . settle the issue . . . by what means did he intend on doing that? She'd heard of duels, men fighting with pistols or swords over some subject or another, but that was so . . . barbaric. Emma couldn't even entertain the idea that Monsieur Laurent could involve himself in such a violent altercation. He was young, handsome, mayhaps prone to the misadventures that her parents warned her against, but she did not think him capable of being a killer as would no doubt result should he begin a fight with someone at court. Then again, the French court was known to be lax with its morals; would it approve of such dealings as he implied? She did not think that such a thing would stand at the English court. Surely His Majesty, King Henry, would not approve of bloodshed in his halls? Perhaps she was mistaken, that happened from time to time. Perhaps she was mistaken and he was merely going to speak with the man and settle this so-called issue. Yes, that seemed more reasonable.

“I’m interested, what is it that you do that would lead you to Bordeaux?”

Captain Amancio spoke before Emma could, but he merely voiced her own questioning thoughts. She added as an addendum, "yes, pray tell what business you are in, Monsieur Laurent?" Her mother gave her a look, and she dropped her eyes from the two men back to her plate. Was she being too nosy? Sometimes, it was so hard to interpret her mother's silence and glances. "I only mean to say, that the French are not typically fond of Aquitaine and so are not usually seen around its capital." The feeling was mutual, she knew. The Aquitine were friends to the Spanish, barely, but were open enemies of both England and France. Understandably so, given their recent history.