FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

History Repeats Itself

Chapter 21

"He even took his mother's horse," Charles said darkly. He stood at the window, arms folded as he stared out at the rain. "Evelyn's child indeed."

Etienne had been gone for more than a week. Charles sent dogs into the forest to find him the moment they realized he was gone. Some were expert bloodhounds and a part of the duchy's armed forces, which were under command of Richard and Charles. Others were volunteers from town, peasants who believed they would receive a hefty reward from the dukes if they found the prince. But the search parties scoured Crinnington from top to bottom and found nothing.

Though the forest had been silent for twenty years, Charles was beginning to believe there was magic involved. Every night as Richard slept, he went to the secret room in the back of the library and studied the journals written on fox magic and lore that were hidden there. The place had belonged to old Fassil, a fox who was once Howlester's court healer and sorcerer. The old fox's journals spoke of god-spirits, creatures that could shape-shift, heal, bring down fire and lightning - creatures that could not dwell in their atmosphere for very long without a host. They were gods. But on the mortal plane, they could bleed; they could die; and there was a reason they lived in another realm, far away in the sky.

Having always been devout to his own religion, Charles had never believed such nonsense. But after everything that had happened to Evelyn and her vixen love, he had begun to doubt. He began to realize that the world beyond his world was more intricate and far larger, far older than he had ever given thought to. He studied Fassil's journals . . . and the thought clicked in his mind that perhaps the creator King Antony had merged with . . . was the _same_god the foxes worshipped.

According to the journals, the foxes worshipped several gods, and each god had clutches of clans and tribes that they watched over. Charles knew from Evelyn's letters that Lily had belonged to the Ti'uu Tribe. But there was more than one Ti'uu Tribe. Or at least there used to be. Charles was beginning to think every Tribe Ti'uu was dead and gone. For surely they would have attempted to restore Crinnington with their magic?

One of Fassil's journals also spoke of the goddess Hildrith'el, a being of light who ruled the other gods. She shone too brightly for mortal eyes to look upon her, and she ruled the fate of mortals with a flick of her finger. One whisper, and entire fox kingdoms fell. The ancient foxes had worshipped and feared her. And according to Fassil's writings, they feared her still.

"Mm . . . Charlie . . . come to bed," Richard moaned.

Charles shook his head. "Come_to _bed?" he repeated incredulously. He glanced over his shoulder.

Richard was in their large canopied bed, chest bare, half-asleep on his back. His red mane was a mess, tumbling across one cheek and over his shoulder. It had grown incredibly long over the years, and the duke had never bothered to trim it, allowing it to grow longer and longer, curly and blazing in the moonlight.

Charles scowled. "My nephew - and your cousin! - is out in the forest! Where anything could be happening to him --"

"Like what?" Richard demanded without opening his eyes. He scowled and turned his face away. "There are no more foxes in Crinnington, Charlie."

"Richard --"

"Come to bed, I said," Richard insisted wearily. Eyes still closed, he frowned and fumbled to pull the coverlet back.

Charles sighed and slipped into bed. He let his cheek fall on Richard's bare chest and smiled as his lover's strong arm closed around him. Richard's lazy paw smoothed down Charles' long white mane, eventually stopping as he drifted off to sleep again. Outside, lightning flashed, and the room was momentarily etched in monochrome lines of shadow and light. Charles closed his eyes, listening miserably to the rain. He hated the rain because . . . it rained the day she died.

How many times had he tried to forget that dismal day? He held Evelyn's body, he wept, and as the thunder roared and the rain pattered down, no one could pry her away from him. He flattened his ears and growled fiercely at those Beaucerons who tried. Then Bastian came, and in a sudden fury, Charles ran at him. He attacked the king with everything he had, all the while screaming, "It's your fault! It's your fault! You could have stopped her!"

King Bastian caught Charles to his chest and held him. And in the stillness and silence, as they stood weeping, little Etienne began to cry.

Charles still believed Bastian could have stopped Donica. He refused to speak to the king for years, and it was Richard who played mediator. During those long years when Charles mourned his sister, Richard was ever at his side. If he needed him, he was there. And he showed the same loyalty to King Bastian. Richard and Bastian exchanged letters during the first few years of Etienne's life, and though House Kingsley had been banned from Wychowl's court, the king promised that one day soon, he would see his friends again.

And he did. In fact, Bastian insisted. He sent many letters inviting Richard and Charles to his summer home, his winter home, his every home away from home. Charles would snatch the letters from Richard, crumple them, and toss them in the fire. It was Bastian's fault Evelyn was dead - as much as it was Donica's. He refused to see it otherwise. He would then stare at Richard, waiting tensely for him to protest. But Richard never did. He simply leaned over his desk and went back to his papers.

Then one morning, King Bastian appeared at Howlester Manor. It was fairly early. Just before dawn. He arrived with only two of his elite bodyguard, wearing a hood and cloak and simple adornment to hide his royal identity. He had come in secret, for fear of Donica's wrath. Richard was away in the next town, and Charles knew the king had seen it as an opportune moment to reconcile with an old friend. And what choice did Charles have but to see him in?

Charles invited the king inside and they had tea. They spoke of the weather. Of the latest fashion. Of the newest play in the theater over in Sudbury. The king was warm and imploring, but Charles remained stubbornly cold and aloof. Unable to stand it any longer, Bastian closed his paw over Charles' and whispered fiercely, "I never meant for it to happen! I swear! I loved her with every fiber of my being - I _still_ache for her!"

Charles looked into the king's pleading eyes and the last thread of his resolve snapped. He squeezed the king's fingers as sudden tears blinded him. And he forgave. He looked at Bastian and suddenly realized how deeply the king was suffering, that he was suffering alone. With Richard banned from his court, he hadn't a true friend to comfort him in his darkest hour. Charles realized how desperately he and Richard were needed, and they began to visit the king, in secret, at various remote locations.

They stayed at the king's lodge in the winter, roasting marshmellows and sipping hot chocolate. In the summer, they visited LakeTroket in the AdamantineMountains. Richard hated nature and spent most of his time inside, drinking and napping. This often left Charles alone with the king, and together, they would fish from dawn to dusk, take hikes, or talk over their picnic basket.

Charles would ask after Etienne, and the king would give him glowing recounts of the prince's first word, his first injury, his first dance, his first crush. Etienne was growing into a fine, strong boy, and Bastian was swelling with pride. Bastian had loved Etienne so dearly.

Charles shared stories about Jonathan, who he loved as dearly as a son. King Bastian listened with a fond smile as Charles went on about Jonathan's first word, his favorite food, the way he threw little tantrums just like Richard. Sometimes they spent whole afternoons talking about their children, their one great joy in life.

Had Donica discovered their meetings, she would have done everything in her power to stop them. She hated Richard, and after everything that had happened, she feared Charles. She feared the power of persuasion Charles had over her husband. Because of Charles, Evelyn had become a princess overnight. Because of Charles, Corene had been trumped by Etienne for the throne. Charles didn't realize it at the time, but he had the power to make King Bastian do pretty much anything. The entire fate of the kingdom could change at a loving glance from the duke to the king: Bastian was in love with Charles.

Bastian's feelings were something Charles did not realize until long after the king's death. After Evelyn passed away, Charles and the king stopped sleeping together. Charles was too furious with Bastian -- even after they reconciled -- to even think of it. And there was also Richard, who Charles loved dearly and who he did not want to harm further with the sordid affair.

Then one day they finally heard the news . . . Bastian was dead. Charles sat at his desk and reread Bastian's last letter again and again, looking for something, anything to comfort him, to explain. The king's death had been cited as pneumonia, but Charles knew immediately that it was a lie: Bastian had never been sick in the twenty years Charles had known him. Reading the letter by candlelight, he finally caught a tone in one of the lines, an affectionate tone he had never dared to notice before. Bastian's last letter was one of yearning, of unrequited love. And the thought struck him: could Donica have killed Bastian because he loved Charles?

Lying in bed in Richard's tight arm, Charles was swallowing the sadness down when something drew his eye to the window. He sat up and fumbled for his spectacles, which were on the nightstand.

"Charlie . . ." Richard muttered, half-asleep as he licked his lips. He reached blindly and let his paw drop. "Come back to bed, baby. You know I can't sleep without you."

Charles ignored him, slipping on his housecoat as he went to the window. He peered out and went still: a female was running toward the manor, wrapped in a cloak and a tattered gown, her white mane streaming. The guard at the gate had let her in, and now he chased after her with an umbrella, begging her to stop. The female kept running through the slashing rain. She slipped in the mud with a scream. The gatekeeper tried to help her up, but she fought him off and ran desperately for the door.

"What in the name of . . .?" Charles muttered. He threw a pillow at Richard's face and the duke moaned irritably. "Get up, Richie. Something's happening downstairs!"

Duke Richard continued sleeping and didn't move.

Charles swept from the room, snatching up an oil lamp as he went. He almost collided with Hadly and Brooke, who both came running to him up the corridor. The maids were wrapped in housecoats, manes disheveled. Brooke was frightened and stammering; Hadly frowning with concern. Brooke dutifully took Charles' lamp and lit it for him.

"Something is astir, my lord," Hadly said breathlessly. She clutched her housecoat to her big breasts. "Estica and Marvene have already been sent for --"

"Sent for?" Charles scowled. "Why the bloody hell weren't they guarding the door already? What am I _paying_them for?"

Hadly and Brooke exchanged glances, and Charles knew they were hiding something. But there was no time to interrogate the maids. He swept past them, calling for them to follow. He could hear them rustling after him.

Estica and Marvene were two female guards Charles had hired onto the estate - causing an immediate scandal that did nothing for the family's already stained reputation. While it was considered quaint for a female to learn to fence and shoot, it was always frowned upon when she actually used her skills. Females were never recruited into the king's army, for instance. All the king's elite were male - as were the armed divisions of the various dukes across Varimore. A lady joining the service simply wasn't considered ladylike, though Estica liked to joke that that was the entire point.

Estica was a beautiful Bernese - silky black mane and fur with a white chin and white cleavage. She was the youngest daughter of Duke Abner Shackley of the duchy of Growlane, and therefore stood to inherit nothing and was likely to be pawned off into a political marriage. Richard was an old school chum of the duke and had been invited to a shooting tournament in Growlane. Charles tagged along at Richard's insistence. He hated anything to do with shooting and thought it all nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of males to posture. He was on the verge of dozing off when Estica sauntered onto the field. She was dressed like male in a jacket and boots, with her tail hanging out the back of her trousers. With her hood drawn up to shield her face in the sudden rain, no one suspected that she was, in fact, a bitch. She entered the tournament under a false name and won. After she received her trophy, she pulled off her hood and let her voluminous black mane fly free - to the collective gasp of the crowd.

Duke Abner Shackley was the laughingstock of his own tournament as angry males pelted Estica with their wineglasses. Estica was immediately disqualified and her trophy given to the runner up - a handsome young male who'd been after her paw in marriage for years. If anything, her young suitor seemed to love her all the more for the defiant ruse. But Duke Abner was not impressed. He sent his daughter to her room with a curse and a threat that she would pay for her mischief later. Charles slipped from his seat and caught the young lady before she had retreated upstairs. He hired her on the spot.

Marvene Porter was a lovely young Dunker - a scenthound with pale golden fur covered in black splotches. She was short but brusque, slender but strong; her short golden mane cropped to her cheeks. Unlike the Lady Estica Shackley, Marvene was not of noble blood but was a poor young bitch living in the gutter when Charles met her in Sudbury Lyn. She was not a prostitute - no, there wasn't a pimp alive with the spine to force her. Her father died serving the crown in the last war and left her destitute and alone. Before that, her childhood was spent learning to fence and to shoot from him. By the time he left to serve in the war, she was a master of the craft.

Of course, Charles didn't know any of that when he met Marvene. He was riding along in his carriage when he noticed mastiff officers trying to arrest her. Apparently, she had stolen an apple off a fruit cart. Though given the way they were handling the poor girl, one might have thought she had stolen the crown jewels. They roughed her up like a male, slamming her against the wall and fondling her, taunting her and laughing as they squeezed her "apples." She fought back viciously, and Charles was so impressed, he simply watched for a time, believing she would eventually fight herself free.

But she didn't. One of the officers slapped her, and the two of them dragged her into an alley. She twisted to get away. One slapped her a second time and lifted her, kicking, in his arms. Appalled, Charles leapt from his carriage and threatened to have the both of them hanged if they didn't leave off the girl at once. Recognizing the duke of Howlester, the officers quickly let the girl go and disappeared as fast as their legs could carry them. Charles kindly offered the girl a job working in his kitchen. Marvene gave him a lopsided smile as she dusted herself off and replied, "I'm much better at cutting up dicks than sausages, m'lord."

Since they were hired, Estica and Marvene had quickly become Charles' go-to guards. They handled the worst disturbances on the estate: would-be thieves, assassins, and the occasional angry zealot who wished to protest a same-sex alliance holding the throne of Howlester. But as the months passed, the two females - once so prompt and dutiful - began to go missing when they were needed the most. Charles could not fathom what was going through their minds or why they dared to test his patience with their carelessness.

When Charles reached the front doors, they were open to the rain and wind. Estica and Marvene were there, as was the frantic young female Charles had seen sprinting across the lawn. The strange female cringed from the two guards, her eyeliner smudged and running down her white cheeks. Behind her, the old gatekeeper was shrugging and trying to explain. He was still holding the umbrella and brandished it almost angrily. The strange female shrank from him in horror. She tried to run inside and fell with the soft helpless scream of a child. Estica caught her and helped her up again. She shrank from Estica, shrugging her shoulders and ducking her head. She was filthy and torn. When she saw Charles approaching with the maids, her eyes fluttered wide and she ran - blindly. They watched as she flew to the wall, halted, and sagged to the floor in sudden defeat. Her torn skirts fell limp around her, like the broken wings of a bird.

"She came runnin' to the gatehouse, m'lord," the gatekeeper explained to Charles and waved his umbrella. "She looked hurt, so I let her inside --"

"Without clearing us first?" Estica snapped at him.

The gatekeeper scowled. "_Maybe_if you and your girlfriend there were ever at your post!" he snarled and nodded at Marvene, whose breasts heaved angrily. The gatekeeper looked at Charles. "See, m'lord? This is why you don't hire bitches to do a male's work --"

"That will be all, Matson," Charles said before Estica and Marvene could shout at the male as one.

Indeed, the guards looked on the verge of strangling him.

Greg Matson was a Dutch Shepherd herding dog who used to herd sheep with his family in the countryside. His family became poverty stricken soon after he married his young bride - a direct result of the decisions made in Howlester's court that year. He arrived at the court in Howlester, yelling and cursing the "rich shits" who had destroyed his life. As recompense, the Duchess Victoria hired him on. He was a kindly old gentleman but was set in his ways and believed - as the rest of his generation believed - that females had no place as guards or swordfighters. Matson's notions were not exactly frowned upon by modern society either. The difference was, his generation was louder and harsher in its views.

Charles thought all of it a bit insane. Their society allowed females to inherit a dukedom, after all. If a male married into a dukedom, he took his wife's - and thus the dukedom's -- last name. When Richard married into Howlester, he took the name Kingsley. Had Evelyn married into the duchy of Glenhowler, she would have become a de Lion.

What was more, the Duchess Victoria had ruled Howlester and held a more prominent role in political decisions than Charles' father, Duke Verneus - who had married into the dukedom from a distant march. No one batted an eye. Queen Donica ruled on high, not as regent but as queen in her own right, and again - no one batted an eye.

Bitches were allowed to be political sharks, but they were not allowed to show physical strength or skill. That was considered for males alone. Charles found it obnoxious. And he was tired of listening to old Matson and his rants. There were some days when he thought of replacing the old dog, whose arthritis was becoming more severe as the years passed. But he was fond of Matson too. Matson was loyal and he could trust him. And one could not buy loyalty.

"Yes, m'lord," the gatekeeper said dutifully, and with a righteous sniff, he snapped his umbrella open and hobbled back to the gates.

Estica and Marvene turned guiltily to Charles. The duke could see with one glance that they'd been pawing each other: their manes were mussed, their clothes unkempt. Estica's breastplate under her jacket was coming loose at the buckle, and Marvene's belt was haphazardly fastened. Ah. So they were lovers. Why hadn't he realized?

"Your grace . . ." Estica began, but Charles held up his paw and she felt silent.

"That's enough, Shackley. You and Porter return to your posts. We'll discuss this in the morning."

Estica and Marvene avoided looking at each other.

"But, my lord," Hadly protested calmly. She stood behind Charles, stiff and regal as nobility, her paws folded over her apron. Charles had always thought her very graceful and elegant, even when she was a child. "If that girl throws a hissy fit, I'd rather Estica there handle her." She nodded at the tattered female, who even now sat against the wall, hugging herself.

"For god's sake," Charles moaned. "You let me worry about the girl. Shackley, Porter - back to your posts. Brooke --"

Brooke started, almost dropping the oil lamp. "M'lord?"

" - run and get blankets for the poor creature."

"Aye, m'lord!" Brooke scurried off with a flash of her golden tail.

"Hadly?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Prepare a room for our guest. And get the medicine satchel."

"Yes, my lord." Hadly turned with calm dignity and climbed the stairs.

Estica looked as if she wanted to say something. She and Marvene hung back, and Marvene rubbed her arm as she muttered, "Your grace . . . We . . . That is . . ."

"In the morning, Porter," Charles insisted and fixed the females with a severe stare.

The two guards nodded unhappily and stepped outside, closing the doors behind them. Perhaps they thought Charles would dock their pay. It was certainly tempting after such irresponsibility.

Finding himself alone with the strange female, Charles slowly approached her. She was still sitting against the wall and cringed as he came. Her white mane clung slick to her head, heavy with rainwater. She was drenched, shaking, and smudged in filth . . . and blood. There were droplets of blood on her gown.

Charles swallowed hard and removed his housecoat. She stared uncertainly when he offered it to her.

"I won't hurt you, my girl. You're safe now. We're going to take care of you."

The girl blinked. Charles saw her eyes soften and her lips lift in a slow smile. She took the housecoat and pulled it around her shoulders. Charles took her by the waist and she braced her paws on his shoulders as he helped her to stand. She was cold and frightened but seemed unharmed - but for the bandage on her arm. The bandage was smudged with old blood and half-hanging off. He gasped when he noticed the hideously long scar blaring through the fur.

The girl bit her lip and smiled at him sheepishly. "H-Hello . . . Duke Charles Verneus," she said in a trembling voice. Her eyes danced over him fondly.

Charles frowned. "Do we know each other, my lady?"

She ducked her head bashfully and said as if quoting, "Would my lord like to try one?"

Charles smiled sadly. "Princess Corene."