Maren continues reading A Flemish Flame, which she began writing during a production of Verdi’s Don Carlo.
The music played during this episode:
- Excerpts from Giuseppe Verdi’s String Quartet in E minor
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Transcript
(orchestra tuning)
Hello and welcome to The Bodice Ripper Project, an exploration of sexuality, feminism, and the journey to self-empowerment through the lens of romance novels.
I’m Maren Montalbano, opera singer, coach, and writer.
In this episode, you’ll hear me finish A Flemish Flame, the story I began during a production of Don Carlo. I also talk a bit about my relationship with perfectionism.
So make yourself comfortable, loosen your bodice, and let’s begin!
(intro music plays)
Welcome. And thanks so much for pressing play. You know, it’s been another procrastination week for me. I’m afraid. I am a day late, although I, I really am grateful that there’s no real penalty for being late. You know, don’t have a paycheck that’s associated with the timing of when this podcast comes out.
I did finish A Flemish Flame. There are five chapters in total. You heard chapters one and two a couple of weeks ago, and I have chapters three and four for you in this episode. I was going to put in three, four and five, but each one of the chapters is actually pretty long.
Because it took so long for me to actually write the story and then record it – I’d spent most of Sunday recording it and then most of Monday editing everything. It’s now Monday night at 10:50 and I’m still not done. I’m rerecording this intro.
I realized that it was okay to be flexible and turn this into a three-parter and give you chapters three and four. I think they’re both super fun. And I did have a lot of fun adjusting the pace of the storytelling to fit the music and vice versa, to be honest. It’s kind of like a little puzzle for me and it feels so good when it all lines up.
So it is late. I’m not going to talk too much about my process, but I do hope you enjoy, and let’s get on with the story.
Let’s get on with the story.
When last we heard, Marguerite de la Marck, a spy for the Flemish government during the reign of King Philip II of Spain. She had been attacked by ninja monks at El Escorial, the seat of government (this is important information for later) and had been exiled from court. On her way out of town, she was attacked by what she thought was a highwayman but who turned out to be the masked stranger who had saved her during the ninja monk encounter at El Escorial.
In a few swift movements, he pulled her off the ground and deposited her on his horse, bounding into the saddle behind her. In the fading light, they galloped away from the bustling inn only a few miles down the road and towards a dark, forbidding forest.
A Flemish Flame
Chapter 3
Marguerite slid from the saddle, exhausted. It was now pitch dark, and they were deep in the heart of the forest, the canopy so dense that she could not even see the stars. A large structure rose in front of them, but with very little light, she could not tell who or what was housed inside. But the stranger’s steps padded gently on the gravel path with certainty, so she stayed close behind him.
He stopped suddenly in his tracks and turned swiftly to face her. Surprised, she stumbled, nearly falling into his massive chest. He grabbed her by both arms to steady her and bent close to whisper in her ear.
“Wait here.” Those words brushing her ear caused her to hitch her breath, but before she could respond he vanished into the darkness.
Moments later, a large wooden door opened a few feet in front of her. She hadn’t even realized they were that close to the structure! He stood patiently, candle in hand, holding the door as she entered the building.
The large stone structure looked like it had seen better days. Cold air blew through the windows, and the few pieces of furniture she could see looked like they had been charred in a fire. “What is this place?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“This used to be the abbey of my order,” the stranger said. “Before the Inquisition found us.”
He was now busying himself at the fireplace, cleaning out debris and laying fresh wood down for a fire.
“But…surely you are Catholic?”
The stranger paused to glance at her. “I am a member of the Order of St. Odo. You may call me Brother Julian.”
She frowned. “I’m not familiar…” she started.
“We are a secret order devoted to the elimination of fraud and corruption within the church.” He had turned away, again focusing his efforts on the fireplace. “As you might imagine, there are many in the Inquisition who do not appreciate our efforts.”
Marguerite knelt at the fireplace beside him. He had created a stable base for the fire and was now strategically placing sticks around the top. She picked up some kindling and began placing it in the crevices between the logs.
“And…you or some of your order must have traveled to the Far East? I recognize some of your fight patterns from the Master Zho, who my husband had employed from beyond the Steppes. He taught me the Way of the Fist.”
A soft smile appeared on Brother Julian’s face. “Master Zho, yes. He trained me…and your husband Jean…together.”
She gasped, her eyes meeting his. “You knew Jean?”
He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder in a calming gesture. His touch caused her whole body to light up in response. She bit her lip, trying desperately not to feel anything from this monk, this man of God! – but her body had other ideas. She felt heat begin to emanate from between her legs.
He did not seem to notice, thank goodness, for he continued to explain. “Jean was a member of the Order, too. Before his death, he left us instructions to look out for your well-being.” His hand absentmindedly drifted from her shoulder to her elbow, and she felt like his fingers left a fiery path on its way down her arm. “We all knew you would be in great danger at El Escorial.”
He broke their gaze and removed his hand to retrieve a flint from a pouch on his belt. Shocked at her own body’s response to this stranger, she quickly stood up and watched from a distance as he started a fire.
Soon a warm blaze emanated from the fireplace, and Brother Julian had placed several blankets and pillows in front of it. He beckoned for her to join him.
She stood still, wary of what her body would do if she was close to him again.
“This building is very drafty,” he pointed out, “and we cannot go anywhere until morning. Let us keep each other warm and preserve our energy for the battles ahead.”
When she still did not move, he offered, “You have nothing to fear from me, señora.”
She shivered, then nodded, arranging the blankets so she was securely wrapped within them. Surely, she had nothing to fear from a man of God.
Chapter 4
Marguerite lay on her side, facing the dying fire. Julian – Brother Julian, she reminded herself sternly – was curled behind her, his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly with each breath. She had awoken only moments ago, the dawn chorus of birdsong in the forest having made its way into her consciousness.
The air was chilly, and Marguerite sleepily considered snuggling up to the warm body behind her. His presence was comforting in this strange place, even though he was still a stranger himself.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the forest. Marguerite was instantly wide awake, and she felt Julian shift quietly behind her.
She moved to get up, but his voice whispered urgently in her ear: “Stay still, señora. Pretend to sleep.” His lips grazed her earlobe, and she shivered in response. He placed a dagger in her hand, and she nodded.
Silently, Julian crept away, and the icy draft in the room became more pronounced with his absence. Closing her eyes, she slowed her breathing and focused her awareness on her other senses.
She could hear a small commotion outside. Julian had found the intruder. She wondered if she should get up to help, when something in the air shifted. She heard soft leather boots on the floor, and the distinct smell of cigars and smoked sausage drifted towards her nose.
There was someone in the room with her, and it was not Julian.
She tightened her grip on the knife in her hand but stayed still, relaxing her face into a facsimile of sleep.
He was almost upon her. She could tell by his footfall that he was examining her position, trying to figure out how best to overpower her. But she could also recognize lecherous intentions in his heavy breathing and the fact that he adjusted his clothing frequently.
She smiled inwardly. She had him exactly where she wanted him.
He crouched beside her.
She held her breath.
He reached out to cover her mouth, but in an instant, she slashed at his hand with the knife and rolled towards him, knocking him off balance.
He grunted, falling backward, but caught himself before he hit the floor. He lunged at her again, but she was too quick. She was now on her feet, facing him with a knife in her hand and anger in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she hissed as she lunged at him.
He sidestepped, backing up into the fireplace. He grabbed the fireplace poker and brandished it menacingly, jabbing it aggressively towards her as he advanced.
Without a larger weapon, she had no choice but to retreat. She kept her senses tuned to the room at large. When Julian entered from the window, she was able to position herself so that her attacker was focused solely on her and not aware of Julian’s presence.
Julian made eye contact with her and nodded.
She pretended to stumble, allowing him to get close again. As he thrust his poker, she grabbed it, twisting it out of his grasp just as Julian jumped on his back. Julian wrapped his arm around the intruder’s neck in a sleeper hold. The man struggled for a bit, but eventually crumpled to the floor.
Julian and Marguerite stared at each other, breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight.
Something passed between the two of them, and they instinctively moved towards one another. Marguerite was ready to throw herself into his arms…but Julian frowned and looked away.
“These were just the scouts. There will be more,” he murmured. “We should go.”
“Not until I know more,” she retorted, crossing her arms in front of her breasts. “I have been exiled from El Escorial. I am no longer a threat. Why are they still chasing me?”
He busied himself by gathering their belongings.
“Fine. If you aren’t going to tell me, I’ll ask him.” She pulled a rope from her bag and began to restrain the unconscious man.
“We don’t have time for this.”
This time she was the silent one, making sure the knots she tied were as strong as the ones she learned from her time as a child apprenticed to Grace O’Malley.
“Goddammit, Marguerite.”
She paused and looked up at him in surprise. “You are an odd sort of monk, Brother Julian.”
His dark eyes flashed with frustration. “Fine, if you want an explanation, I can give it to you. Can we go now?”
The man on the floor was beginning to regain consciousness.
“This will only take a minute.” She pulled the last knot tight and threw the rope over one of the beams in the rafters. “Help me with this?”
He stayed where he was, arms akimbo, glaring at her.
Rolling her eyes, she pulled down on the rope, hoisting up the would-be assassin as he moaned in protest.
“Who are you? What do you want with me?”
He coughed. “I know nothing.” He struggled against his bonds, which caused them to tighten further.
“This is a waste of time.” Julian walked over to the man and placed his hands around his throat. “How far away are your comrades?”
The man sputtered and laughed. “There’s no use running. We are legion.” He glanced over Julian’s shoulder at Marguerite, and his eyes widened. “So it is true,” he gasped. “She has the amulet.”
Marguerite unconsciously raised her hand to the pendant dangling from her neck, a parting gift from her best friend, Elisabeth of Valois. When she did so, she lost control of the rope holding him aloft, and his swift fall to the floor knocked him unconscious again.
“That’s enough,” Julian said, as he grabbed her arm to lead her outside. “We must away.”
And I will leave it there.
Join me next episode, in which I interview Elizabeth Lenhart, Artistic Director of JAM Academy in the Dominican Republic. You will not want to miss her story of resilience and hear about how she is changing the shape of arts and culture in the D.R. by working with children.
What happened to me, and I’ve learned it several times across my lifespan, but, what happened to me is not who I am, but how I react to it is who I am. And I wanted to give hope to my kids that you can, like a phoenix, rise from the ashes. That just because it doesn’t work out the way you wanted it, does not mean that you won’t have a happy ending, and that you can’t have the life that you wanted to live, or that you can’t achieve what you wanted to achieve. And I think what I wanted to do for them is be the example that so many adults hide from.
I know you’re going to love this interview. Elizabeth is a force to be reckoned with, and I also see her as a kindred spirit.
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I love hearing from you guys. If there was something that particularly struck you about this or any episode, please reach out to me on Instagram. I’m @supermaren.
The Bodice Ripper Project is a production of Compassionate Creative, and was conceived, written, and edited by me, Maren Montalbano. The background music during the story was excerpts from Giuseppe Verdi’s String Quartet in E minor I still couldn’t find a public domain recording of Don Carlo. The theme music was written by yours truly. If you liked what you heard, I invite you to give this podcast a 5-star rating – it makes me very happy and I jump up and down every time I see one! I’ll see you next time.