The stallion's hoof makes such a marvelous symphony, does it not? The constant, dull drum almost sounding like a heartbeat with its continuous noise. Combine it by four, then combine it by nine, the continuous drone so loud it was quiet, so quiet that it was loud. The sight of them, nine raven haired stallions, four pairs of twins, one up front, looking almost like a nordic dog sledding team with the amount of horses in the arrangement. All bridled with the finest leather it could even call to a Duke, their Duchesses' becoming besotted by the gold keeping the mechanisms together.
Leather and cloth grumble together, chains and belts clinging together with high pitched twangs as they make their way through the Kings' road. Gold buckles whistle in the wind as she continues to shine in the light and keep the bridles together. The grumble of the ground and the warble of the wind create an intricate combination of sounds as the oversized carriages begin to pick up speed on a downward slope. The groaning, moaning of the wooden beams of the undersides of the carriages continue on with the slight mutterings of the steel nibs that keep the wheels turning.
The sun is high up in the sky, in a small ball that is easy to look upon her great Majesty as if she held all the answers in the world. The sky is bright, the brightest teal, not a blemish of white anywhere to be seen. Even with the bright conditions of the sky, in all her might and mercy, the air holds a nip that numbs the top of one's nose and tingles the apple of the cheek. The air is fresh, crisp, like the little winter berries after a snowfall, or the leaves after a chilly night.
The steep incline implores all the residents of the grandeur carriage, all pale wood with crimson velvet curtains. Intricacies were carves into the wooden carriage, filled in by blackened glass, the wheels oversized and high from the dusty dirt ground. Grandeur designs were carved from wood and placed strategically on four points on top of the carriage, an iron crown poking up so obviously that it would tell a blind man who the occupant of the horse and cart actually was, if the nine stallions and two dozen guardsmen in silver and navy didn't give it completley away already.
Inside the Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg, an excited murmur overtakes the occupants as the carriages near the main entrance of the grandeur châteaux that the King of France had chosen to take his autumnal season within. Like the little sheep that courtiers were, they obediently follow the shepherd to the chateaux. It was no secret that the Queen of France scowled and schemed throughout the whole process. Nonetheless, the herald begins to blow into the oversized trumpets as the four carriages slow to a stop in front of the great walled entrance of the chateaux.
The occupants begin to spill out of the palace, in their reds and golds and silvers and purples. They begin to whisper and mutter to each other about the woman who, if things had gone differently in the years preceding this, would have been their Queen, who would have lead France to such greatness. Greatness the once Scottish Queen now knew an indulged herself within. They whisper about this mysterious meeting between the girl who spend a section of her childhood on French soil, and the aging French King who refused to take to his bed and hand over the crown to the long anticipating heir apparent, who himself held no heir and no wife.
The colourful courtiers of the French Court obediently bow to their masters and mistress as the aging King and the aged Queen take to the front of the courtyard to greet their guests. The fair haired heir, a widowed childless father twice over, stands behind them a few feet, his arms bound behind his back as the foreign footmen begin to clamber off the back of the carriages, placing boxes onto the floor and opening four doors in quick succession.
"Introducing Her Highness, Lady Greer of Kinross, Duchess of Aberdeen in her own right, Princess Consort of Portugal." the herald introduces as the second carriage opens, and a hand grasos for the footman's. The Scottish Duchess wears a green satin gown, covered in gold embellishments, emeralds and diamonds falling from her neck and ears, an impressive crown of sapphires, emeralds and rubies on top of ridiculously long blonde curls. The wife to the fourth in line to Portugal, she holds herself with impressive stature and grace.
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You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
