Revenge of the Rose

by Nicole Galland

  “Don’t bring up your lineage,” the minstrel began. “And if you’re asked about it say as little as possible. Don’t mention Lienor, and if you’re asked about her don’t say much either— the way these fellows’ minds work they’ll assume your affection is incestuous.” Willem looked disgusted, and Jouglet laughed. “Do not ever suggest you are not rich. In fact, make offerings, give gifts, empty your purse to appear heedlessly magnanimous— “

  “Jouglet,” Willem protested uncomfortably.

  “Trust me, all this is for your betterment. If it helps, consider it your Christian duty— you’re proving you’re not avaricious. One cannot be sinful by way of greed when he gives all he has so merrily away.” Jouglet looked at him comfortingly; the familiar hazel eyes winked. Willem, staring into them, felt himself relax a little and smiled gratefully. Then Jouglet grinned and called out to the innkeeper’s daughter: “Musette, my darling!”

  “Is there anyone you don’t know?” Willem demanded as Musette began to cross toward the tubs.

  “Hello, Jouglet.” The young woman smiled adoringly.

  “Hello, pretty lady. My knight Willem here wants to give you a little gift. Upstairs in his chamber, lying beside his hauberk, is a hairpin with beads in it that happen to exactly match your eyes. He meant to bring it down, but he’s so overwhelmed by all this excitement— did you hear he’s going to sup at the castle tonight?”

  “Yes, I heard that!” Musette said, smiling at Willem with almost the same smile she had bestowed upon the minstrel. Willem and Erec, in perfect unison, eyed her curving form from head to toe with appreciation. But Jouglet was the one she winked at, after blessing Willem with thanks for the gift and leaping up the stairs to retrieve it.

  “But Jouglet, I did not bring a hairpin— “

  “Yes, you did,” Jouglet said. “And lots more. I’ve seen to it.”

  They stared at each other for a moment in silence. “This is an elaborate project you’ve set for yourself,” Willem observed, not sure if he should be amused or alarmed. “You’re tossing me off a boat into deep water.”

  “Which will teach you how to swim,” Jouglet concluded, and with an avuncular chuckle, slapped the surface of the bathwater so that it splashed into Willem’s face.

  Willem grabbed the musician’s wrist and almost pulled Jouglet into the tub with him.

  “You two are enjoying yourselves far too much,” Erec said in a lazy voice of contentment as the boy massaged his scalp. “Stick to business. What else does he need to know? Surely you realize how ignorant the fellow is, you’d better spell it out for him.”

  Jouglet squatted on some musty straw between the tubs. “He’s not the only neophyte in this courtyard, milord; you should put some attention to your provincial accent or you’ll stand out like a country clod. And try to refrain from teeth-flicking if someone irritates you, it makes you boorish.” Knowing he deserved the jab, Erec grimaced. Jouglet softened, gave him a friendlier look. “I know your heart is sound, m’lord, and if you will be ruled by me a little, I think you’ll find we’re natural allies.” Jouglet turned back to Willem. “Most of all you should know that the brother recently arrived from Rome, Paul, is an unwelcome visitor.”

  “Why unwelcome?”

  Jouglet smiled knowingly. “There is an occasionally entertaining history of familial jealousy. More to the point, though— Konrad and the old pope had some troubles with each other. His Holiness very publicly excommunicated His Imperial Majesty, so His Imperial Majesty very publicly rounded up an army to attack His Holiness.”

  Willem nodded. “I wanted to enlist, but my uncle would not let me.”

  “Yes, I was looking forward to it myself, great fodder for song-writing, but alas, Konrad was talked out of shedding holy blood. In their settlement the pope demanded that one of his close officers perpetually maintain a presence at the royal court. When Innocent became pope earlier this year, he appointed Konrad’s own brother Paul for the honor. Paul had expected to be elected pope himself, and in the hopes that he might yet earn the office, he endears himself to the Mother Church with various little schemes to gratuitously undermine Konrad’s authority.”

  “So I had best not discuss religion,” Willem said. Jouglet nodded. “What may I discuss, then?”

  Jouglet buffeted the knight’s wet shoulder. “Your prowess, of course! Tell them how you came to be knighted before your majority.”

  Erec laughed. “Willem was knighted by the archbishop of Basel because he saved His Eminence from a band of angry knights during a tournament His Eminence was preaching against.”

  Jouglet grimaced. “Ah. Then perhaps don’t tell them how you came to be knighted. But you may talk about tournaments in general. Or tell them all how eager you are to follow that Fulk of Neuilly lunatic on his holy war against the infidels.”

  “I can’t even consider such an honor until Lienor has been safely mar— “

  “Don’t tell them that!” Jouglet insisted. “Your only concern should be proving your manliness. The only females you should bother yourself about are the Blessed Virgin and whatever lady is lucky enough to eventually become your patroness. You gain nothing at all by showing solicitude for an orphaned baby sister. And most of all, Willem, you must not be so wide-eyed. Don’t gush about how magnificent the castle is. The spoons are solid silver— don’t heft them with wonder, or gawk at anything else you see. Don’t express amazement at the number of courses served, or the quality of the tapestries, or the extravagant cut of Konrad’s tunic. And don’t trust a soul there. Even Konrad. He’s disarmingly friendly most of the time, but he can snap, and when he does— and I am not speaking figuratively— heads roll. Do not make any alliances or enemies until you understand what is really in your interest. Smile politely and keep your guard up. You’ll be under intense scrutiny. Be careful how you speak. Every sentence must suggest you are beyond any kind of reproach. Don’t say, ‘I can’t ride in the upcoming tournament because I have no helmet.’ Say instead, ‘Ah! A tournament! I’m the man to win it! All I need is a helmet!’”

  Willem rolled his eyes, but Jouglet was serious. “Say it.”

  The knight took a breath and repeated, dubiously, “Ah, a tournament, I’m the man to win it, all I need is a helmet.”

  “That was convincing,” Erec said with mild sarcasm.

  Jouglet clapped Willem’s wet shoulder approvingly. “Good man. And when in doubt, just keep your mouth shut. That always impresses Konrad because nobody ever does it. He’ll think you are profound.”

  Willem felt dizzy contemplating how entirely his fortune was hanging on the minstrel’s plans. It was thrilling and yet terrifying— and for a moment, extremely claustrophobic. “Will I know anyone there but you?”

  Jouglet hesitated. “Perhaps you’ll recognize some garrison knights from tournaments. And…from here to the western border, things are prickly, so Konrad likes to keep an eye on the counts and margraves, especially with France recently become so aggressive. So there are a number of nobles here from your backwater part of the world.”

  Willem tensed slightly, then made himself recline against the back of the wooden tub. He voiced a sigh so tense it could be heard across the yard. “And would that include His Majesty’s uncle, fat old Alphonse, Count of Burgundy?”

  Jouglet shrugged. “Probably. So what? He won’t hurt you.”

  Willem glanced toward Erec, whose attention was distracted by watching Musette saunter back down the stairs. Willem whispered, tensely, “I have a vendetta with Alphonse. He sinned against me and tried to cover that sin with another far more heinous.” Automatically, as he always did at the thought of this, he crossed himself. “He’ll try to undermine me— “

  “Don’t worry about anything, my friend!” Jouglet insisted. “I’ll be there as your guardian angel, and the whole point of the evening is that you will meet the emperor and some potential patronesses who already think you are sensational.”

  A tentative smile of disbelief washed over Will
em’s face. “This is all extraordinary, Jouglet,” he breathed, and for reassurance again sought the minstrel’s calming gaze.

  Jouglet smiled back and whispered, with sincere affection, “I am delighted that you chose to play along.”

  5

  Occasional Poem

  [verses commemorating a particular event, such as a feast]

  27 June

  Marcus, in his duties as court steward, never liked introducing unmarried gentlemen to Imogen’s father; he could almost hear the balance shift against his own favor as Alphonse sized up every bachelor as a potential son-in-law. At least this fellow, however rugged and hearty, had no land to speak of and no proper title; also his tunic, although a nice bright scarlet, was simple and hardly suggested wealth. He had the bedazzled look of a country boy entering the gargantuan sandstone fortress for the first time— coupled with the unease of a knight who’d had to surrender his weapons at the gate.

  They stood at the extreme lower end of the hall by the primary entrance. “Willem, son of the late Henri Silvan of Dole, and one of your vassals,” Marcus said, politely but as offhandedly as he could. “Willem, you may recognize your liege lord, Alphonse, Count of Burgundy.”

  The count’s pale eyes began to widen in the appraising manner Marcus was so used to, but then the widening increased until he was indecorously close to bug-eyed. And yet he smiled.

  Willem was neither bug-eyed nor smiling, but his lips were pressed taut together. The distracting enormity and opulence of his surroundings vanished from his mind; he was staring hard at the count.

  For all his height, Alphonse of Burgundy had to look up slightly at Willem. “God in heaven, son, you’ve grown up to a strapping fine young man,” he said heartily. Perhaps a little too heartily.

  “Thank you, milord,” said Willem, expressionless.

  “I’m glad you’ve turned out well. I shall remember to summon you to the Oricourt garrison. I tend to forget about the little knights on the borders, please forgive me.” His eyes flickered beyond Willem, and his face lit up with genuine relief. “And is this not Erec of Tavaux, my newest-risen vassal!” Alphonse brushed past Willem and warmly embraced Erec; Erec, even more dazed than Willem by their remarkable surroundings, hardly registered who was speaking to him. “But why are you costumed like a squire?” the count chitchatted nervously, ushering Erec away.

  Once the two were out of earshot, there was an awkward pause. Marcus smoothed the trim on his blackberry-colored tunic.

  “You know each other,” he commented, gratuitously.

  “As you say, I am his vassal,” said Willem in a neutral tone. His slight accent was identical to Imogen’s— Burgundian— and it hurt Marcus’s heart to hear it in another voice. A shadow passed across Willem’s face briefly and he asked, “I know the count is His Majesty’s uncle, but is he in fact an intimate?”

  “That depends on who is speaking,” Marcus answered. “He would say he is.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I would say he is my future father-in-law and politely decline to comment on the issue.” He felt an adolescent thrill, stating it to an outsider; he wondered if Willem was aware of his lowly lineage and would challenge him for making such a claim.

  But Willem just looked thoughtful for a moment. “I do not know his daughter but I trust she is…a lady of her own merits,” he said respectfully.

  “As different as Gabriel from Lucifer. Her mother the countess is a goodly soul, that must account for it.” And in a lower voice, “I assume your dealings with him did not leave a pleasant taste in your mouth?”

  Willem released a blow of breath that was a disparaging laugh, but then stopped himself. Jouglet had insisted he not make alliances too early. He glanced after the count, who had already released Erec and was making his way toward the high table before the fire.

  “It was a long time ago,” Willem said to Marcus. “It makes little difference now.” Thinking of Jouglet he glanced around the room and noticed for the first time how bright it was, much brighter than his little wooden hall at home— there were more windows, more chandeliers, and the walls were limed and painted with bright colors, preponderantly gold. He’d never seen gold paint before.

  Before he could locate his friend, Marcus took his arm. “So,” the steward announced. “To the master.” The trestles were set up running on either side of the hall, but no cloths as yet covered the boards as Marcus led Willem toward the most ornate chair in the room, canopied with gold and scarlet, in the middle of a dais.

  Seated there, at the high table, was a man who only vaguely resembled the images stamped in coins or sealed in wax, but there could be no doubt who this was. A large man of middle years with pale eyes and reddish blond hair, hefting a sleek hooded falcon on his leather-wrapped wrist, he was dressed in brilliant scarlet silks and velvets— dressed more magnificently than anyone Willem had ever seen, with a gold circlet literally glittering with gemstones—

  “That’s the emperor!” Willem said in a voice checked with excited awe. Marcus looked at his astonished face and smiled despite himself. So the much-heralded Willem of Dole was a pup. Marcus found his artlessness endearing.

  “Yes, His Majesty, and on his wrist is Charity. The cardinal beside him is his brother Paul who has recently joined us from Rome as papal nuncio.”

  The two men were not speaking to each other. More precisely, Konrad was not speaking to his brother. He seemed to be speaking to his falcon, whose hood sparkled almost as brightly as the king’s own headpiece. Paul was earnestly, but unsuccessfully, trying to rally the few other men at the high table to converse with him. Willem felt a little sorry for him.

  “Look at that,” he said with continued artlessness. “They are alike in feature, but there is something to the king that the priest lacks.”

  “Good fortune in birth order,” Marcus observed.

  Konrad recognized Willem from Jouglet’s many loquacious descriptions— brown hair, brown eyes, handsome build, handsome rectangular face and a fighter’s handsomely broken nose, an air of confidence mixed with modesty. He returned Charity to her perch behind him and rose to greet the young man. He was pleased to see how strong he looked— he must be a good fighter, at least; the slavish dedication to the throne, so exalted by Jouglet, would prove useful. If nothing else, he could perhaps be made a reliable constable somewhere back in his home county.

  “Ah! The fabled Willem of Dole!” Konrad said, which brought all eyes to the young knight. The hum of the hall quieted a little. Willem was startled that the great man called him by name and bowed deeply; the emperor further astounded him by taking his elbow as casually as Marcus had, and drawing him back toward the table. He couldn’t wrest his eyes from the emperor’s jeweled hand on his arm. On the emperor’s little finger, simpler but larger than the other adornments, was his gold signet ring, the very ring that had sealed the invitation Nicholas had brought to Dole. Willem resisted a childish urge to touch it. “We have all been very much looking forward to your arrival,” Konrad said, booming. People were still gossiping in huddles, but it was noticeably more quiet as everyone tried to study the emperor’s new find. “Jouglet has sung your praises for weeks now, and Nicholas has added to the chorus since this afternoon.”

  He had Willem on the royal dais before the younger man had collected himself. “Allow me to introduce my little brother,” Konrad said with an insulting casualness, not addressing the priest directly. “This is Cardinal Paul, our official papal spy. Brother Paul, this is Willem of Dole, a celebrated knight of Burgundy whose arrival we’ve been anticipating for days.” Paul was on his feet before Konrad had finished the introduction. Everyone looked wary of the newcomer, but Paul looked almost frightened.

  Willem bowed. “And what great exploits have brought you to my brother’s attentions?” demanded the cardinal with an anxious smile, as if he were jealous that yet another person in the room might out-shine him. Despite sharing the emperor’s fair features, he appeared an oversize a
dolescent, soft in all the places Konrad was firm. And while Konrad’s expansive geniality heralded how entirely confident he was of being the center of the known world, the equivalent attempts in Paul betrayed the creeping realization that he was not, and might never be.

  “The court musician assures me he is worthy of attention,” Konrad said with suspicious offhandednesss. Paul was appalled.

  “You may as well believe the commendations of a prostitute,” he said in a loud whisper to his brother.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Konrad mused. “But he’s no ordinary musician, Paul, haven’t you sniffed that out yet with that little bloodhound nose of yours? Come, Willem, sit with me— shove down, Alphonse,” he ordered his uncle, who had taken the seat closest to the king’s right. The count rose, with a look that Willem found shockingly disrespectful. Konrad ignored it. “Uncle, this fellow is from your county. Have you been hiding him from me and all the ladies?”

  The count almost choked. “Of course not, sire, but I have a thousand knights under me, and only a few of them ever make it to your halls. I need the rest along the Saône,” he stammered.

  His nephew had already lost interest in him. “Sit beside me while we wait for supper, Willem.” The count and knight exchanged uncomfortable, startled looks.

  “Oh, sire,” Willem said carefully, finally finding his voice, and bowing again. “You honor me, but it would be unseemly to take such a privileged seat. I am a stranger here, surely there are men more deserving of the distinction— “

  “They will sit next to me another time,” Konrad said placidly. There was constant competition among the knights and courtiers for the coveted spot to the king’s right, and he wanted to see how they would all respond to an unexpected usurper.

  But Willem did not provide an opportunity to find out. “Truly, Your Majesty, I would feel an imposter,” he said, fighting the urge to fidget under the continued intensity of so many judging eyes. “Especially as your own esteemed brother and uncle already flank you. Simply being in your court is honor enough for me. I’ve brought my squire Erec with me— please allow me to sit with him until he is more confident with his German?” He glanced about briefly and finally saw Jouglet at the lower end of the hall, near the door, beside Erec and the lower minions of the castle. Jouglet had probably had an eye on him since he’d walked in.