Fan Fiction ❯ Pillars of the Earth ❯ 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Maryanne Covington 
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Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.07.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 817 | Visits: 174 | Status: Work In Progress
etc
Anime/Manga: Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Fantasy / Drama / Adventure | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.07.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 817 | Visits: 174 | Status: Work In Progress
The dawn broke–or rather, crept–lazily over the horizon, sending razor thin knifelets of sunlight through the curtains of the Duke’s manor home. The peculiarly young steward, Paul, spread them very slightly and peered out onto the dew covered lawn. His eyes were fairly small and somewhat beady as they calculatingly swept from right to left and back again, taking into stock the stillness of the morning. Something felt off today, but he couldn’t quite place it. After all, he’d been feeling off ever since the duchess had moved into the manor. He did not even like the sight of her.
He closed the curtains and drew himself upright solemnly. The message that had come last night had been routine, of course, thus not making for any immediate concern. The Duke often had sent such notes while he was away. They held little monthly instructions, usually benign but occasionally odd. Everybody in the house knew that the Duke wasn’t human–they complied with his requests in silence, keeping it quiet with his wife, slowly changing around the framework of the world she lived in to prepare the manor for its lord’s arrival. They had been preparing for five years and Sicily had hardly taken notice except to occasionally ask after unusually small dinners and an increased number of tithes (in the form of fruits and vegetables, usually) being left on their doorstep.
Paul walked forward, running a fingertip across the top of a bookshelf experimentally and nodding when he found there was no dust. He was a good steward for his age–he knew the ins and outs not only of the house but also of the people within, and he used that to its full advantage. As for the new Duchess, he had no idea what his lord was thinking when he picked her out. Paul distinctly remembered how the Duke had meandered through his portrait gallery and smiled at the pictures of each of his wives in turn, then commented briskly on each visage before sliding smoothly to the next. “Fat,” he might say, or “stupid,” or “whore,” but Paul was used to these words and said nothing. When the Duke had turned his attention to the largest portrait of all at the end of their walk, Paul took in a breath. The portrait was, of course, of his first wife–the only one he had not killed—who had committed suicide rather than be a part of what she called his “infernal kingdom.” The Duke had stopped and gazed at it for a long while, and then turned to his steward.
“Paul,” he began jovially enough. “I believe it’s been a few years since I was married.” His steward smiled and said nothing. The Duke turned back to the portrait on the wall and folded his hands behind his back. “I think I wouldn’t mind it very much if you found me a new wife,” he continued placidly, but Paul heard the bitter undertones in his voice.
“My lord, it shouldn’t take long, there are many lovely young women of noble birth in these parts–“
”No!” The Duke had cried suddenly, whirling around and pulling the steward closer to the portrait roughly. He was immensely strong and held Paul there by the lapel of his jacket. “Do you see that woman?” Paul found his nose almost ground into the ornate gold frame. “Find me that woman. I know she exists, and I want her.” His face had twisted into a grotesque frown. “You will do as I say.” The Duke had released him, shoving him somewhat to the side. “You know I am leaving within the week for an extended trip. I will return in approximately ten years–and by then, I expect to have a duchess. Is this understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” Paul had murmured, rubbing his already swelling neck. He had understood then, and he understood it now–it had taken him five years to find her, but when he finally did it was almost six months’ worth of haggling over lands and dowry with her dimwitted father, the British king, and ultimately she settled into the manor as if she had owned it all of her life. Paul secretly hated her. After all, he had gone through so much trouble, and Sicily would undoubtably be dead within two months of her husband’s homecoming.
Paul fished the letter out of his coat pocket again, and this time broke the seal. His trained eyes scanned carefully down the first half of the page and paused, his whole body tensing as if he were going to give a start.
“I will be returning in the evening,” he read out loud. “Do not inform my wife. Do not prepare a banquet. Ready yourselves–I come hungry.”
He closed the curtains and drew himself upright solemnly. The message that had come last night had been routine, of course, thus not making for any immediate concern. The Duke often had sent such notes while he was away. They held little monthly instructions, usually benign but occasionally odd. Everybody in the house knew that the Duke wasn’t human–they complied with his requests in silence, keeping it quiet with his wife, slowly changing around the framework of the world she lived in to prepare the manor for its lord’s arrival. They had been preparing for five years and Sicily had hardly taken notice except to occasionally ask after unusually small dinners and an increased number of tithes (in the form of fruits and vegetables, usually) being left on their doorstep.
Paul walked forward, running a fingertip across the top of a bookshelf experimentally and nodding when he found there was no dust. He was a good steward for his age–he knew the ins and outs not only of the house but also of the people within, and he used that to its full advantage. As for the new Duchess, he had no idea what his lord was thinking when he picked her out. Paul distinctly remembered how the Duke had meandered through his portrait gallery and smiled at the pictures of each of his wives in turn, then commented briskly on each visage before sliding smoothly to the next. “Fat,” he might say, or “stupid,” or “whore,” but Paul was used to these words and said nothing. When the Duke had turned his attention to the largest portrait of all at the end of their walk, Paul took in a breath. The portrait was, of course, of his first wife–the only one he had not killed—who had committed suicide rather than be a part of what she called his “infernal kingdom.” The Duke had stopped and gazed at it for a long while, and then turned to his steward.
“Paul,” he began jovially enough. “I believe it’s been a few years since I was married.” His steward smiled and said nothing. The Duke turned back to the portrait on the wall and folded his hands behind his back. “I think I wouldn’t mind it very much if you found me a new wife,” he continued placidly, but Paul heard the bitter undertones in his voice.
“My lord, it shouldn’t take long, there are many lovely young women of noble birth in these parts–“
”No!” The Duke had cried suddenly, whirling around and pulling the steward closer to the portrait roughly. He was immensely strong and held Paul there by the lapel of his jacket. “Do you see that woman?” Paul found his nose almost ground into the ornate gold frame. “Find me that woman. I know she exists, and I want her.” His face had twisted into a grotesque frown. “You will do as I say.” The Duke had released him, shoving him somewhat to the side. “You know I am leaving within the week for an extended trip. I will return in approximately ten years–and by then, I expect to have a duchess. Is this understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” Paul had murmured, rubbing his already swelling neck. He had understood then, and he understood it now–it had taken him five years to find her, but when he finally did it was almost six months’ worth of haggling over lands and dowry with her dimwitted father, the British king, and ultimately she settled into the manor as if she had owned it all of her life. Paul secretly hated her. After all, he had gone through so much trouble, and Sicily would undoubtably be dead within two months of her husband’s homecoming.
Paul fished the letter out of his coat pocket again, and this time broke the seal. His trained eyes scanned carefully down the first half of the page and paused, his whole body tensing as if he were going to give a start.
“I will be returning in the evening,” he read out loud. “Do not inform my wife. Do not prepare a banquet. Ready yourselves–I come hungry.”