Revenge of the Rose

by Nicole Galland

  * * *

  Revenge of the Rose

  Nicole Galland

  * * *

  FOR MY GRANDPARENTS,

  WILLIAM AND RACHEL GALLAND

  Contents

  Map

  Prologue

  BOOK ONE

  1

  Idyll

  2

  Eclogue

  3

  Epistle

  4

  Exemplum

  5

  Occasional Poem

  6

  Bildungsroman

  7

  Fabliau

  8

  Panegyric

  9

  Paralipsis

  BOOK TWO

  10

  Romance

  11

  Rhetoric

  12

  Travesty

  13

  Débat

  14

  Complaint

  15

  Saga

  16

  Imbroglio

  17

  Reiselied

  18

  Palinode

  19

  Irony

  20

  Madrigal

  Author’s Three Apologies for Purists

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books By Nicole Galland

  Credits

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Prologue

  [a passage introducing key elements of all that follows]

  7 June, late in the twelfth century

  in the ninth year of the reign of Konrad the Fair, Holy Roman Emperor

  some seven or eight years after the Third Crusade

  two decades into the era of courtly love, which proposed that

  females just might have value above the waist

  The women were completing their transformation into ladies.

  They did this in the largest pavilion of the unfinished alpine palace as most of the men broke the fast outside.

  “And who are you playing at this time?” one woman asked another.

  “I’m the chatelaine of Bern,” a dark-haired girl said.

  “By whose request?” asked a blonde.

  “The Duke of Bavaria,” she answered, and several of the others murmured enviously.

  Under Marcus’s direction, two dozen pair of hands rummaged through the piles of elegant robes and tunics. All of them— even those grumpy few who truly did this only for the coin— were smiling now, smiling at the outfits, the sumptuous brocade silks and fancy, exotic weavings, sleeves edged with gold, silk and leather girdles, fabrics that troubadours could drone on about for hours. The broad pavilion was bright; it had been rigged to let the cloth roof be drawn away so that the summer-morning sun could come pouring in through the tops of the firs and birches shading the pavilion.

  This was a palace still in the making. The courtyard walls were unfinished (but already overdecorated), and the kitchen was conveniently in working order. There were rough wooden huts for the workmen and their tools, but such men had been removed from the site for this fortnight, and no other permanent structures yet stood. One end of the yard, where the women’s pavilion was staked, was not even enclosed yet. Here the hill they were on rose so steeply above them, it was nearly a wooded cliff, and His Majesty liked the aesthetic of this: nature peeking timidly into what would soon be a magnificent, artificial world, the most sumptuous and glittering of his many glittering courts. In the meantime, with the necessary tents and pavilions, it provided the illusion of an idyll, and illusions were always useful to a monarch.

  “I’m to be a shepherdess for a few days,” announced the most buxom woman in the bunch, and then added, winking, “for the bishop of Friedberg.” Everyone— except Marcus— laughed, and she turned to the tall one, with the heart-shaped face. “And you, Jeannette? Who are you to be?”

  “The naked sister of the Count of Savoy,” Jeannette said with mock solemnity.

  “By whose request?” asked someone else.

  “The Count of Savoy,” she answered, grinning, and the tent roared with their laughter.

  “From what I’ve heard of his sister, I’m surprised she didn’t come herself,” one of the women muttered to another, and they all laughed at this as well.

  There was a lot of laughter in this pavilion, every year, whatever hillside it was pitched on. The prelates, knights, and noblemen outside heard only the bright cheer of such laughter, not the cynicism that inspired it, and the women knew that this was part of the appeal. Besides Marcus the imperial steward, only Konrad— their sovereign and host— had any inkling of what the women really found amusing.

  Marcus was a black-haired man with a narrow, keen-featured face. Each year the women teased him, claiming he was so attractive, they should beg him to take their virtue if only they had not misplaced it. Usually he enjoyed their attentions, and he was popular with all of them for being undemanding. But this year he was agitated and distracted.

  What Marcus had in dark good looks, Konrad— King of Germany, of Sicily, of Burgundy, and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire— had in charm. He was a tall, solidly built man with perfect teeth, pale eyes, light red hair and beard, and a ring of a different gemstone on each finger. He loomed large now in the doorway in scarlet and gold, beaming with the hearty confidence of an empire builder. He had earned, by a balance of bloodshed and diplomacy, the right to peace, to prosperity, and to this unorthodox (but to the women, profitable) summer ritual: two weeks of the finest illusory debauchery in the Empire. This year the debauchery was taking place in the woody hills below the Black Forest, safe from the troublesome Italians farther south and the troublesome Burgundians to the west. The common women who worked near the royal courts competed for an invitation to this fortnight of easy abundance: two weeks of wearing gowns that were far finer than any they would ever own, of eating doucetes and other delicacies they never could afford at home, of being treated almost as politely as the landed ladies they were trussed up to resemble, and finally, bags of generous material reward from the emperor’s own elegant palm before they left. Their only duty— beyond the usual ones of their vocation— was to loosen the lips of the excitable young lordlings, men whose fathers and uncles and older brothers and counselors were not always well inclined toward their emperor. Only Jouglet the minstrel unearthed better intelligence for Konrad than did these women in their playful masquerading.

  “Your Majesty!” the women said nearly in one breath when they realized who had come in through the flap, accompanied by his bodyguards. They all curtsied, unselfconscious in their ratty shifts.

  Konrad chuckled. “Welcome, ladies, to my final summer as a bachelor. Those shifts will never do. We’ve brought you better undergarments— yours to keep! Have your boy bring them round now,” he said to silent Marcus behind him. He turned back to the women. “Venison of rose for dinner, my pearls, and goose in verjuice. Are there any complaints I should hear before we begin?”

  “My only complaint is that Seneschal Marcus has not asked me to carve out time in my busy schedule for him,” said the buxom shepherdess, and there was a round of giggles.

  Marcus, uncharacteristically, blushed. “Too busy this year,” he said, eyes slightly averted.

  The women made teasing sounds of disappointment, and Konrad shook his head with comradely sorrow. “I know, my lovelies, I know, he’s breaking all the rules. He won’t tell me what he’s up to. I suspect he’s brought his own distraction.” Under his breath he added warningly, “And I intend to find out who she is.” Marcus involuntarily winced, and Konrad laughed, smacking him on the arm. “See you all outside,
” he announced, and gesturing for Marcus to hold open the canvas flap, he strode out into the clear, cool morning.

  Jouglet the fiddler had not shown up this summer, to Konrad’s great annoyance. For years the young tenor had dutifully abandoned other adventures to appear, fiddle and bow in hand, and lead commencement revelries. Konrad could not conceive that anything would be appealing enough to turn his favored court musician truant. But truant Jouglet was. Such an absence was particularly irritating this summer, when the cacophony of rumors regarding a royal wedding required constant damping. The French king’s outrageous land ambitions had made it clear that the emperor needed to heighten his own presence in the west; since he was overdue for wedlock, he had decided to seek a wife from the western flank of his empire. More specifically, he wanted a bride from his infamously independent border county of Burgundy, which historically had deeper ties to the sovereign Duchy of Bourgogne, just across the Saone, than to the Empire itself. Burgundy happened to be ruled by Konrad’s paternal uncle, Alphonse, whom Konrad could not abide. Alphonse, like every Count of Burgundy before him, sought opportunities to defy Imperial power; Konrad, like every emperor before him, therefore sought opportunities to more closely weld the heart of Burgundy to his own court. Alphonse’s daughter Imogen was heiress to Burgundy, and Konrad’s marrying her would have been a simple, deft solution to the conflict. But Rome forbade a marriage of first cousins, and so Imogen had been betrothed to Marcus instead, while other Burgundian brides were being sought for His Imperial Majesty. Unfortunately, the emperor and his Assembly of Lords had mutual veto power, which so far meant every suggestion had been nullified, for Konrad would only contemplate a match that might increase the power of his throne, while the Assembly, with the pope’s encouragement, would only contemplate a match that did no such thing. As a result, every marriageable noblewoman in Burgundy was verbally paraded before Konrad’s wearied attention, and he wanted Jouglet present to artfully deflect them all.

  Once the women had refashioned themselves into great ladies, Marcus signaled the musicians. The little throng of courtesans made its way outside behind him. There was an instant and thunderous response from the collected lords.

  Konrad had a mind to find the ersatz Duchess of Austria later that afternoon, but he had given himself the morning to swagger paternally about the dewy yard, assuring himself that everyone was dutifully misbehaving, and that they were grateful to their sovereign for the chance of it. His two bodyguards followed him at enough of a distance that he could pretend they were not there.

  Since it was impractical to provide private tents for everyone here in the remote alpine site, there was a very casual ambiance to the copulation. Only Konrad and Marcus had quarters of their own. Both tents, like the pavilion, were swathed in images of the imperial black eagle and Konrad’s family crest, a black lion rampant. Konrad had watched the flap to his seneschal’s tent from the corner of his eye all morning. Nobody had gone in or out, and when Marcus himself retired to it, he had done so alone. Signaling his guard to wait outside, the emperor slipped into the little tent, grinning with smug anticipation.

  Even in the secrecy of his own tent, Marcus was being secretive. He had thrown a sheet entirely over himself and his companion, whom he was clearly on top of, although they were both trying to be quiet. Konrad paused a moment to see if they would notice him— he was used to being noticed instantly, and especially by his steward. But they were far too engaged in each other. So he reached down and in a sudden sharp move plucked the sheet from off the couple, whipping it out of reach behind his back.

  Like startled rabbits, Marcus and the young woman leapt apart from each other. She buried her head against a bolster, but Konrad snatched that up as well and tossed it to the ground. She cowered, curled up defensively, trying to hide her nakedness and her identity.

  But Konrad recognized her.

  The emperor, seldom at a loss for words, simply gaped. Marcus hung for a moment in horror, seeing his life at court crumbling to dust before his eyes as he tried to read Konrad’s expression.

  The king burst suddenly into bellows of laughter.

  “So my little cousin Imogen is marrying a swine!” he roared. “Can’t you even wait until the wedding, man?” Then he saw that the still-traumatized steward was not properly prepared for fornication. “You’re still in your drawers,” he said, accusingly.

  Marcus, dark-complexioned, became the color of a radish. “I would never presume to lie so freely with a lady of my Lady Imogen’s virtue,” he stammered, which only made the emperor laugh harder.

  “Marcus, for the love of Peter, you’re in bed with her at a bacchanalia, and she’s naked as Eve before the fall!”

  The girl, who was dark-haired but attractively pale and considerably younger than both men, had found Marcus’s silk bed-robe and thrown it around her shoulders. Her expression was as troubled as Marcus’s. She huddled behind him now, and he shifted protectively to shield her. “Sire, cousin, I beg you, please don’t tell my father,” she whispered, stricken, looking down.

  “One of you tell me why the devil Marcus still has his drawers on and I’ll consider it,” Konrad said agreeably and perched on the silk sheets of the portable bed. “Honestly, the consummate seducer, forgive the pun, spending an entire orgy in bed with his intended bride, not naked and not ravishing her— it is so perverse it borders on suspicious.”

  Marcus lifted the corners of his lips in a feeble attempt to appear amused. Then he grimaced and fell into a confessional tone. “Sire, this will sound inane, but the truth is, we’re in love— “

  “So why are your drawers on?” Konrad demanded again.

  “I…” Marcus was flustered, and Imogen herself spoke up, with grim matter-of-factness.

  “Your loyal servant is too much the gentleman to claim me before we are properly wed. He is protecting my virtue should I ultimately be married to another. We are both aware this is a political engagement, which Your Majesty might sever at your expediency,” she said from behind Marcus’s right shoulder, gripping his arm nervously.

  The amusement immediately drained from Konrad’s face. “Yes,” he agreed, irritated partly about the situation, but mostly about having to think about the situation, even at an orgy. The couple winced in anticipation of the famous royal temper. “In fact…in the name of Christ, this was stupid of you.”

  “I know, sire,” murmured the steward, ashamed. Imogen slid her hand from his arm forward onto his chest protectively, and he blushed.

  “Her father will demand your hide if he learns, and then where will I be? You know he hates my ministerials, Marcus— he’ll use this as an excuse to demean your entire class! How could you be so selfish, dammit?”

  Marcus, cheeks burning, was looking down. “Forgive me, milord,” he whispered.

  “This is so unlike you! You haven’t a foolhardy bone in your body! This is on a par with those idiot knights in Jouglet’s troubadour songs.”

  “I would hardly rank myself among the romantic heroes, sire.”

  Konrad gawked. “Did you just speak of romantic heroes?” he demanded. “Are you possessed? My friend Marcus does not say such things.” Marcus said nothing in protest, just sat very straight and looked down at the ground. Konrad made a contemptuous, dismissive sound. “I’ll see you are left alone,” he said gruffly. “But she will not leave this tent, even in disguise, do you understand? Nobody— nobody— is to know she’s here. Ever. They’d never believe her chaste if she was caught in your tent like this. That would reflect poorly on us both and render her worthless if I require her to marry somebody else.”

  “She won’t be caught, sire,” Marcus promised.

  “And you will never put me in such a compromising position again,” Konrad went on. “Or this will be a whip next time.” He struck Marcus across the cheek once, hard. Imogen bit her lip; Marcus did not even flinch.

  His outrage somewhat abated, Konrad took a deep breath and demanded, “Do you have a way to spirit her out
of here?”

  “Yes, sire— “

  “If Jouglet assisted in this, which I assume he must have, he’ll pay for it too. Where is he, anyhow?”

  “Jouglet?” Marcus shook his head nervously. “Good God, sire, he’s a dreadful gossip, he knows nothing about it. I’ve seen to all of it myself. But I promise you she will not be compromised.”

  “Good,” said Konrad in a harsh tone. “Because I do not want problems from her father. He plagues me enough as it is. This would play right into his hands, you moon-drunk idiot.” He groaned. “Never mind what Cardinal Paul would make of it!”

  “Her father thinks she’s visiting a nunnery,” Marcus said hurriedly.

  Konrad stood to leave. “If he learns of this, Marcus, I know nothing. If he informs me, I shall be shocked and outraged and I will punish you severely and in public. You know I mean it.”

  “As long as you don’t punish her, Konrad,” said Marcus, daring in private to plead upon decades of familiarity. Konrad only frowned at him.

  “I’ll punish whomever the wronged father demands I punish; the last thing I need is more problems with the Count of Burgundy while I’m trying to find a bride among his vassals. Christ in Heaven.” He started to let himself out of the tent, then turned to deliver a final warning. “Keep your drawers on, Marcus.”

  Alone, the two lovers looked at each other with both relief and distress.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  Idyll

  [a poem or short prose in a bucolic setting]

  16 June

  Jouglet the minstrel and Lienor were flirting again as they waited for Willem on the steps in the small courtyard. Lienor’s green linen tunic was laced tighter in the back than her mother would have liked, but Jouglet and Lienor each seemed quite pleased with the effect.

  “I’m astonished Willem said yes to this,” said Lienor, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the county of Burgundy, and knew it, but was not much bothered by it. With a grateful smile, she added, “It’s only for your sake, Jouglet. My brother never lets me do anything.”