Nicholas bowed again. “His Majesty the Emperor has called you to his summer court at Koenigsbourg. He is awaiting your presence as soon as you can set out.” Seeing Willem’s confusion he added, reassuringly, “It is not a criminal summons, milord. He has heard good things about your mettle as a knight and he wishes to consider making you a member of his entourage.”
Willem made a gasping sound, and the hall grew still. He breathed out a restrained, incredulous little laugh. “I am stunned. And of course His Majesty’s obedient servant,” he added quickly. He had absolutely no idea what was appropriate in such circumstances. “Should I depart at once?” He stood up, and seeing him, a few of his less-inebriated guests stood as well. A small group of them had gathered around the gold foil seal, staring at it openmouthed.
Nicholas smiled and held up his hand. “His Majesty enjoys a good feast and would surely wish that you enjoy the rest of yours. Let us begin preparations in the morning.”
“Join us,” Willem said earnestly, embarrassed it had taken him so long to think of this. “Please— ” He gestured for his steward to find a stool. Finally thinking clearly, he switched to German to add, “They are about to bring out a currant-bread pudding that has made my cook famous locally. And then by all means stay as my honored guest tonight.”
“For the feast, thank you, I will stay,” Nicholas answered, smiling. “But not overnight— I have a very comfortable room at the inn awaiting me.” Lowering his voice he added, “And a very comfortable young companion as well.”
“Aha,” Willem said with a polite smile. “Well. Perhaps you will break fast with us in the morning? You are welcome to observe mass here— it is a modest chapel that we have, but our chaplain speaks well.”
“I would be very pleased to do that,” Nicholas said and settled elegantly upon the leather stool the steward had brought.
* * *
The next morning, by the time mass had been performed by the family cleric, Willem’s handful of devoted serfs, understanding the importance of their visitor, had diligently cleaned up what had turned out to be a very messy evening. The evidential detritus of every indulgence, from overeating to carnality, covered the hall, the courtyard, and the stableyard at dawn; by the time the chapel bell tolled prime, these areas had been restored to their usual monastic sheen.
Nicholas, refreshed from the various comforts procured at the inn, arrived for a breakfast of yesterday’s bread crusts sopped in sauce, and ate beside Willem, describing what the journey would be like and whom Willem should bring with him for the circumstances. The young knight’s eyes grew rounder as he listened. He was being asked to select an entourage of his own: all his squires and enough servants and page boys to attend them for an extended time (he murmured, falteringly, that he might bring one servant, and perhaps two pages, and he had no squire but Erec). He was to bring his armor and at least one ceremonial outfit (he had only one ceremonial outfit, which made the selection simple).
According to Nicholas, the journey would be easy, assuming they did not succumb to heatstroke, ague, highwaymen, or wild boars. They would be almost entirely on the edge of river valleys without having actually to ford any body of water; they would begin by following the River Doubs east and slightly north, into the gentle southernmost foothills of the Vosges. Willem knew this terrain from running the tournament circuit; as in Dole, the climate was mild and the soil superb, the land’s lush virgin forests being reclaimed with growing rapacity by serfs and lords alike, and tamed to crops, vineyards, and livestock forage. Beyond lay the Rhine Valley, a flat, swampish expanse that ran north to south but was extremely broad from east to west as well. They would travel north along its western edge for several days, Nicholas explained, on ancient, refurbished trade roads raised several yards above the marshy valley floor, roads that traveled true north even as the Rhine itself meandered with silt-inducing vagueness toward the North Sea. Conveniently, Koenigsbourg Castle was to the west of the river valley, perched atop a mountain crag; the town of Sudaustat lay at its foot a half-mile distant, snug against the hills that connected the Rhine plain to the northern Vosges. A room at Sudaustat’s best inn had been reserved, although Nicholas was vague as to who was paying for it.
When breakfast was finished Willem set his steward about the task of organizing the adventure. Erec was sent for. The few servants they had, except Lienor’s maid, were corralled into preparations; the task enlisted even those who would have been otherwise harvesting the hay. Nicholas had quite offhandedly remarked that they need not bring much, they would be in a castle town where nearly everything required could be purchased. Willem saw no point in mentioning that he had very little with which to make such purchases.
Once the servants were dispatched on their errands, Willem gestured Nicholas to follow him across the small sun-drenched courtyard toward the back of the manor. “Allow me to present the only treasures of my home,” he said, with an obvious eagerness to please His Majesty’s servant. One thing he knew surely was that introducing his sister to any man would please the man enormously. Lienor’s relentless flirtations had disturbed him until he came to see— Jouglet had pointed this out to him— that for Lienor, the whole point of flirtation was never yielding to any wooer.
They climbed the outside wooden stairs above the stable, to a small platform and carved wooden door. Willem stepped aside and held open the door for his visitor, wishing that the place were overrun with page boys for such menial services. They went inside.
The women’s chamber was a long, narrow room running the southern length of the household. It had several windows to the south that let in brilliant light, a view of hayfields, and a warm breeze that was softened by the River Doubs. For such a modest house, Nicholas noted, this room was sumptuously decorated and relentlessly feminine: there were flowery tapestries on the walls, flowery curtains by the windows, and flowery draperies around both beds; there was one chair and one stool, each embellished with flowery designs; there were flower-painted chests with attractive but unuseful knickknacks atop them, jewelry draped almost casually over every free surface, and several gilt, but empty, birdcages. The clothes-pole held more kirtles, robes, and tunics than a poor knight’s sister would ever need to own.
Sitting in profile, at the large middle window that had a linen drape protecting it from direct sunlight, were two women. The older one was wearing dark grey, and generally plain; the younger, blond, was one of the prettiest females Nicholas had ever seen. They had been bent over sewing frames, embroidering, but both looked up as the door opened. With twinned expressions and similar bright green eyes, they smiled on seeing Willem then looked startled, almost alarmed, when they registered Nicholas’s presence. They set the sewing frames aside hurriedly, and hurriedly stood up.
“Nicholas, these are the ladies of my house,” Willem said with a hint of pride. “Maria my lady-mother, and my sister and ward, Lienor. Ladies, this is Nicholas of Swabia, messenger of our great emperor.” He had sent them the extraordinary news before retiring last night, along with the gold seal from the scroll; by now even Lienor had managed to control her excitement. Nicholas bowed to the mother, then the daughter. They curtsied, eyes averted. “I am honored,” Nicholas said in a silky voice, “to be granted access to the private regions of the manor.”
Lienor smiled and spoke in the perfect aristocratic German that Jouglet always insisted on. “We are honored to receive you,” she replied. “We have seldom in the course of my life received a visitor to our chambers like this. My brother is famous for being extremely protective.”
“That speaks excellently well of him as well as of you, and only further deepens the honor I feel at having been invited here,” Nicholas said, with another bow.
“Whatever I am master of is at the emperor’s disposal,” Willem said with quiet earnestness.
“I am sure that is more than your emperor requires of you,” Nicholas replied pleasantly. “But he would be pleased by the sentiment, especially in this corner of the
Empire.”
“Will you sit with us?” Lienor asked, and held a dainty hand out to him. She was wearing one of her favorite tunics, made of brilliant green Ghent cloth— a gift from some Flemish knight whose name she did not even remember now. The sleeves were fluted to the wrist, and draped extravagantly, almost ridiculously, to the floor. This made any activity— even embroidery— extremely cumbersome, but for today’s meeting she did not care, because it made her green eyes startlingly greener. Nicholas smiled, with a bow of his head, and kissed her hand without quite taking it in his, or touching it with his lips. “Please have my seat,” she gestured; he sat on the cushioned window seat knee-to-knee with the mother. “Would you like some refreshment?” Lienor asked. “We are blessed with excellent wines. Lisel,” she said to the servant girl without looking at her. “Bring a flagon and a fresh cup for our guest.”
The girl withdrew silently.
“How was your journey?” Lienor asked. She sank onto a brocade cushion at Nicholas’s feet, in a demure posture that nonetheless deliberately offered him an unimpeded view down the front of her tunic. Nicholas, although immune to far less subtle behavior from the ladies of Konrad’s court, found the girl’s flirtation endearing.
“It was uneventful, which means it was very good, thank you, milady.” He glanced around the room. “This is a beautifully furnished chamber, milady.”
She smiled. “Thank you. Nearly all these things are gifts from our friends. The cages of course came with birds, but I let them all go free. My heart weeps to see things caged.” She gave her brother a brief, meaningful look, then returned her attention to Nicholas and gestured to one of the two beds, with a confidential smile. “That is from the Lord of Auxonne, who courted me, although he was married. My brother would not accept the gift, and when His Lordship deposited it anyhow, Willem insisted he reclaim it, but he was killed in a tournament the next day. We have given it to mother, as it seemed improper for me to lie within it.”
“An excellent course of action, milady.” Nicholas smiled. He pointed to a corner of the room, where there was a worn, oval-shaped fiddle on an enameled table set almost as if upon an altar. A faded image of the imperial eagle was visible beneath the strings, between the flat bridge and the fingerboard. “Are you a musician, milady?”
“I play the psaltery, of course,” Lienor said offhandedly, then noticed where his gaze had gone. She smiled. “Oh, yes, the fiddle. That was left here by a fiddler who tried to teach me to play it, after he had been given a much finer one by his patron. I do not have the knack for it, I fear.”
“But my sister sings quite beautifully,” Willem put in. “Lienor, would you please entertain our guest?”
She made a self-deprecating gesture. “Consider his life, Willem. He hears the entertainers of the emperor’s own table, it would be an embarrassment to both of us to subject him to my unsteady warble.” Then she smiled languidly at Nicholas, an expression he interpreted to mean: I know my voice will enthrall you, but first I want you to appreciate how modest I am.
“I would be honored to hear the lady sing,” he said.
She smiled again, pleased. “Of course I cannot deny the emperor’s ambassador.”
When the wine arrived, she served it to him, then offered him a pillow for his feet, and settled again on her cushion with her carved psaltery, to sing: “A delicate breeze of longing blows through my lover’s window…”
Nicholas listened, enjoying with dispassionate pleasure the combination of Lienor’s truly childlike smile and not nearly so childlike physical comportment. He glanced at Maria, the mother, sitting in the window seat across from him. She had returned contentedly to her sewing, humming slightly to Lienor’s song. She had not spoken once.
“You have handsome children, milady,” Nicholas said, bowing his head to her. She smiled and bowed her own head to acknowledge the compliment.
“I never dreamed my lover would betray me,” Lienor was singing. Her voice was very pleasant, if not brilliant. “For I always yielded to him with a smile.” And with an expression as sweet as honey, she concluded daintily, “Oh, God of love, I just want to rip off his accursed head, and I don’t mean the one on his neck.”
Willem grimaced and shot her a chastising look, but Nicholas laughed. “That is how our jongleur Jouglet sings the final verse,” the messenger commented, smiling archly. He’d recognized that weathered fiddle on the table.
Lienor’s entire face widened with her smile. “Jouglet!” she said, delighted. Nicholas nodded. “Brother, did you hear that? I knew this was somehow Jouglet’s doing!” Willem, without speaking, registered flustered, pleased interest. Lienor turned back to Nicholas. “Jouglet has written several songs about me. I wonder if he’s ever sung them for His Majesty?”
Nicholas’s eyes widened. “Is it you? Jouglet is known for his romantic lays, almost as much as his romantic exploits— “
“Romantic exploits? Jouglet?” Willem laughed despite himself. Lienor frowned.
“Oh, yes.” Nicholas smiled knowingly. “For a fellow still working his way toward burliness, there is something there already that makes the females swoon, and he has a reputation that pricks his rivals’ jealousy. He will be notorious when he’s older. More notorious than he already is, I should say.” Seeing the squelched outrage on Lienor’s face, he added diplomatically, “But there is only one lady to whom he devotes his poetry, whom he is too discreet to name— he’s let it slip that she is a blonde from Burgundy, so I assume it must be you.”
Lienor was somewhat appeased. “The only one?” she said, with fetchingly wounded dignity.
“The only one. And now that I’ve seen you I am convinced his heart is entirely devoted.”
She smiled. “As long as I have his heart, I don’t much care what he does with the rest of himself. His Majesty’s court must be an excellent assemblage of personalities, judging by the two whom we have now had the honor to know.”
Nicholas smiled at the flattery, so obvious yet so benign. Jouglet had good, if predictable, taste— Konrad would like this one. She would make pleasant company and never bother anyone with willfulness, Nicholas thought.
Until the time came for them to leave.
* * *
Maria, her chaplain, and the family’s aging steward had come into the hall for a final interview with an anxious Willem. He assured them Erec had assigned men to guard the property. He advised the steward to remember to air and turn the stored grains and feed his falcon and close the house securely before retiring each night; he advised his mother to air the furs and linens when it was dry outside; he advised the chaplain to deliver alms each morning to the village after mass. He advised them each to do exactly what they had been doing anyhow since before he had been born, and they promised him, smiling, that they would try to remember his instructions.
While waiting for the official leave-taking, Lienor went out the back gate, to the flat and fertile river plain mown low by livestock, to breathe in the green smells of the field and throw sticks for the dogs. She had the rare sort of translucent skin that looked as if it would burn at once under such summer sun, or at least mottle with freckles. Her mother, concerned about that, went to the back gate to call her inside.
“Give her a few moments more,” Willem called out from near the river, where he and his servants were greeting Erec. “It may be awhile before she has the liberty again.”
Lienor froze, stick in hand. A young pup danced about her feet impatiently waiting for her to throw it. After a moment, stunned, she simply gave the stick to the dog, who accepted it with disappointment.
“Brother dear,” she said, using a tone that hinted there was trouble coming. “One might almost think you meant for me to be sequestered in the house the entire time that you are gone.”
Without speaking, Willem handed Atlas’s reins to Erec and took a few steps toward her, holding his arms out in a conciliatory way. She backed away, a horrified expression on her face.
“No,” she said,
quiet but ferocious. “You cannot mean that, Willem. You absolutely cannot think to keep me penned in the house for what could easily be months. I spend enough time in there, with you out at your accursed tourneys all spring.”
“Those tourneys are our only hope of advancement, sister.” Willem continued approaching her slowly; she continued backing up toward the gate. “Lienor, there is no other way for me to know that I am looking out for your safety.”
“You could trust me!” she cried. “You could trust me to sequester myself when a man comes here. How many male visitors are we likely to have while you’re away? How much of my life would you have slip away inside the house?”
“You make it sound like prison,” Willem said and stopped following her, because he was afraid she would trip on the ludicrous long sleeves of her gown walking backward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw to his dismay that Nicholas had come out to the back gate and was watching curiously. “You have the run of nearly the entire house, and the whole courtyard as well.”
“The whole courtyard,” she mimicked with bitter sarcasm, then suddenly lurched sideways so that she could, moving forward, get past him. “The yard is not thirty paces across and all summer it reeks of manure! I will not do it. Send me to a nunnery while you’re gone, I’d have more freedom there.”
“Lienor,” he said unhappily, reaching out an arm to stop her, but she sailed past him and broke into a run, arms raised to keep from tripping on her sleeves, a hand held up to her crown of flowers so it would not fall off. She ran as if she would try to take wing up into the brilliant blue, or else— more effectively— hurl herself into the shallow Doubs. “Somebody stop her!” Willem called out to the cluster by the river, and Erec obligingly leapt from his horse and darted toward her across the field. She tried to stop and spin off to the side, but he was quick and agile and extremely pleased to have an excuse to close his arms tight around her.
“Let go of me,” Lienor hissed at him when he had wrestled her to a standstill. “Your breath smells of spoiled mustard.”
Revenge of the Rose Page 5
