♱ @alienored.
At the banks of the Mosvka –– the narrow, dingy river flanking the Kremlin, not entirely unlike the Thames –– there was commotion. The people of the land wrung what coin they could from the Tsar’s guest, doling furs out of caravans, offering up pheasants felled by their own arrows, whilst roving mystics tugged at the sleeves of those who’d venture a reading. Noble children ran underfoot, eluding the rabid snatching of their governesses, as their mothers and fathers shadowed the lengthy retinue of royals meandering the watery byway, their aristocratic nostrils quavering at the stench of the river’s dank brine. Richard, ever an elusive figure, kept to the periphery of the party, for he preferred to observe, rather than to be among those being observed, as his boots squelched in the soft, muddy banks and he absorbed the sounds and sights of the assembled guests. Not far from him, the telltale harbingers of Frenchwomen abounded: hushed murmurs, breathy tittering, and an overpowering façade of heady perfume. Richard cast a sidelong glance to the nest of ladies clasped around their employer and granted a genial crease of his mouth.
Lancaster had recognised her both swiftly and with ease, the woman at the crux of the knot –– Aliénor. More than fabled, she was an enigma. A lesser woman might have gone to a convent, to the grave or, perhaps, to the bed of another man if the King of France had wrestled with the Pope in order to divorce them –– yet Aliénor had forged herself into a relic, rather than a pariah, as necessary to the governance of France as the church, as the King. Although surprisingly small of stature int he flesh, she absorbed what little light had managed to coax out from beneath a shelf of heavy, leaden clouds and used it to spread radiance across her flock of loyal woman. Richard observed as they latched onto her, this woman who was richer than Croesus and more beautiful than Helen, like a babe to a breast. He then nodded, Aliénor’s eyes locking with his as they appeared to swiftly discern his identity in turn, the liquid glass of her irises rounded, keen.
‘Your highness,’ Richard greeted. ‘It has been a long time –– too long, in fact –– since we last met. Walk with me,’ he gave his hand, palm-up, the rubies encrusting his lean digits appearing ablaze, ‘for old time’s sake, and I’ll vow not to wax nostalgic.’
