Revenge of the Rose
Page 14
The morning before the tournament, however, a complication of such unrestrained trumpeting revealed itself.
Fog mated grudgingly with sun to produce a morning of punishing humidity. Konrad had come to watch the squires at training. The royal retinue was enormous now, filled with many of Konrad’s cronies who were in town for the tournament, all of them sporting the imperial imagery wherever they went. Nicholas the messenger had slipped off the crowded viewing platform and closer to the training area to sit on the ground beside his friend in banter, Jouglet. The two of them whispered archly obscene witticisms about nearly every adolescent on the field, and laughed so hard together that they were shushed several times by Willem and then by Konrad himself. After the royal rebuke, they grinned at each other in superior silence until Jouglet turned to look back onto the training field.
After a considered moment, Nicholas reached over to touch Jouglet’s arm lightly, a subtle, experimental gesture of a sort to which the attractive young minstrel was unhappily accustomed. But never before from Nicholas.
Startled, Jouglet glanced sharply at the messenger. “Nicholas…”
Nicholas withdrew his hand and rested it innocuously on the dry reddish soil. “My mistake,” he said smoothly and returned his attention immediately to the training session.
Jouglet, too taken aback to let it rest, said firmly, with a hint of alarm, “Surely you know that I am not— “
“I know that you were not,” Nicholas corrected. “I thought I’d sensed a change of tune. Of late.”
Jouglet eyed him uncertainly. “My interest in the ladies is unchanged.”
“It’s your interest in the gentlemen that seems to have changed.”
“What? What would make you think…?”
“That, perhaps,” Nicholas answered, gesturing with a nod toward Willem on the training field, shirtless and sweating handsomely in the heat.
Jouglet gaped a moment before blurting out, almost angrily, “That’s ridiculous!”
Nicholas shrugged, eyes still on the field. “If you insist. But I’ve never seen you champion any project with such breathless enthusiasm as you champion this one. I think you may be falling for your own hyperbole.”
Jouglet laughed the signature Jouglet laugh, head thrown back, making a hooting sound. “It’s not hyperbole, and I’m not falling for it.” Then, sobering a little, conspiratorially: “I have a weakness for Lienor, I confess.”
Nicholas nodded, smiling. “Yes, I saw your old fiddle in her chamber when I was there. I wondered if there was a story.”
“No story. I am only saying that if I ever act oddly toward him, it is probably because at that moment he is somehow reminding me of her.”
“Oh, that must be it,” Nicholas said with a sardonic smile. He sat up and elegantly dusted the dirt off his hands. “His brawny sunburned back must remind you of her brawny sunburned back. Obviously.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Jouglet frowned. “Life is full of young men I openly admire, but with whom I have entirely innocent friendships.” An almost taunting pause. “You, for example.”
“Me?” With ironic detachment, Nicholas repeated the suggestive gesture that had spawned the conversation. “Not me, Jouglet.”
“I was referring to my regard for the young men,” Jouglet answered defensively, almost flustered, rubbing one foot back and forth across the dry ground in a fidget.
“Ah,” said Nicholas smartly. “But as I have just demonstrated, one must take into account their regard for you as well.”
After a confused beat, Jouglet laughed uncomfortably. “What, Willem? Are you crazy? We scheme daily about getting him a lady!”
With a smug, triumphant little smile, Nicholas whispered, “Yet he spends more time scheming with you than he does acting on the scheming with any ladies. If that keeps up much longer, do you think nobody else will notice?” He turned his head casually in the direction of the papal nuncio.
Jouglet looked flabbergasted, then alarmed. “Point taken,” the musician said quietly. “Thank you.”
* * *
Marcus had taken to attending the training sessions by his master’s side whenever he could spare the time. He would usually end up watching the Count of Burgundy watch Willem of Dole, which always threatened to bring on a mania of fear: he’d tormented himself with pornographically detailed images of Willem laying Imogen down upon a wedding bed, and then discovering he was not the first to touch her.
But now it was Paul who caught his attention: the clerical gaze had been trained on Jouglet and Nicholas whispering conspiratorially together down the slope. Marcus glanced automatically at Konrad for guidance. The papal nuncio was eternally looking for cracks in the moral armor of the court. Both Marcus and Konrad knew Nicholas was vulnerable; after a recent severe warning, he’d learned to be more discreet, but sometimes— as now— he forgot himself.
Konrad grimaced. “Could you for just one afternoon enjoy yourself?” he huffed to his brother without looking at him, and fingered his gold-embroidered beard with his jewel-encrusted fingers.
“I always enjoy myself, brother,” Paul said pleasantly.
“Then be original at least,” Konrad said in a tired voice. “Try incest or bestiality or witchcraft for a change. Anyhow it’s one-sided and has been for years. You’ve discovered nothing more dastardly than unrequited Bulgarian love amidst my minions. Very dull stuff, Paul.”
Paul looked happily, smugly unconvinced. Konrad glanced quickly at his steward, and Marcus headed down the slope at once with a chastisement and some invented business that would take Nicholas back up to the castle, or at least away from Jouglet’s laughter and Paul’s scrutiny.
* * *
That night, the eve of the tournament, Erec went to Vespers, a mock-tourney for squires and younger knights to try their skills in the field. Willem had intended a private vigil, as he always did before a tournament, but when Konrad invited him to dine in his rooms, he did not dare refuse. He left his horse and weapons down at the gate and was escorted to join His Majesty in the dayroom, surrounded by Konrad’s menagerie of hawk and hounds. Jouglet, perched as always on the window seat, played the fiddle for them. They spoke briefly of the tournament, and Konrad finally made official the rumor that Willem had been deflecting for days.
“If you do as well tomorrow as I have every reason to suspect you will, I shall make you one of my own knights,” the emperor began.
Willem looked pleased and tucked his chin like a shy boy. “Your Majesty honors me beyond my wildest dreams,” he said.
“But more than that,” Konrad went on, smiling, “I would make you my own brother. This remarkable sister of yours I hear about— for whom are you saving her?”
Willem swallowed. He admired Konrad’s character generally, but he heartily wished he had even once seen His Majesty treat any woman in his court with anything approaching actual respect. “For someone who would treasure her as she deserves to be treasured,” he said carefully.
Konrad smiled with a self-deprecating smugness and stroked his bloodhound’s head. “I have never met a woman who deserved my treasuring, but if her spirit is anything like yours, she would be counted among my dearest. I would endeavor to learn to treasure her. Will that suffice, my friend? Given, of course, that my Assembly of Lords will agree?”
The knight glanced at Jouglet on the window seat, fiddle on lap. Over the last few days, as Jouglet had seen to it that the “open secret” about Lienor became more open and less secret, Willem had come to understand that this was the pinnacle of the entire scheme: Jouglet wanted Lienor at the royal court, to flirt with her at least, possibly to seduce her, and Willem’s prowess was the only way to get her here. For a brief moment he was enraged, then admitted to himself that he had benefited enormously from being played as pawn. But he felt a passing resentment that Lienor, not himself, was Jouglet’s true preoccupation.
Nearly imperceptibly, Jouglet nodded from the window seat, face expressionless but eyes bright.
“The pope! I don’t need the accursed pope!” Konrad growled, almost hitting the bloodhound as he stroked it. “The empire is already intrinsically accounted holy, its very title proves it. The blessing of the pope would be…redundant.”
He released his company early, aware of how important sleep would be that night for each of them. It had become routine by now, even when Willem did not issue an invitation, for Jouglet to ride behind him on Atlas back down to the inn. This evening there was dancing in the courtyard to celebrate Musette’s engagement to the merchant from Montbéliard. Jouglet insisted that they dance a few rounds with all the carousers, and heartily made all the expected and unoriginal quips about the satisfaction Musette could expect to have with her man of great lances. A garish red and green cloak Konrad had given Jouglet, in honor of tomorrow’s tournament, earned many compliments, and Jouglet flung it away to somebody in the crowd, crying, “I’m sure Willem of Dole will give me something even more wonderful before I leave tonight.”
Willem managed to retire to his room shortly before the high-summer dusk, both flattered and exasperated that Jouglet would not leave his side. “Before I trudge back up the mountainside, show me what you’re wearing tomorrow, won’t you?” demanded the minstrel cheerfully. “Let’s see how quickly I can compose a song about it, maybe I’ll even sing it down there for them tonight and earn an extra penny or two.”
“You’ll see me in full gear tomorrow,” Willem said with a yawn. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind I’ll just ready for bed and perhaps we’ll have a quick flagon before you go. No more singing tonight.”
“Very well,” Jouglet said with a characteristic shrug. “I need to save my voice anyhow. I’ll be busy tomorrow making up ditties praising your victories in front of all the ladies.”
“What am I to reward you for that?” Willem asked and pulled off his tunic. His shirt clung to it and came off too, leaving him bare-chested in the lamplight.
“Nothing, of course,” Jouglet said. “It’s my duty as your friend. Anyhow, it’s a pleasure. And in all seriousness, Willem— by this time tomorrow I think we’ll have secured the perfect patroness for you.”
For a man who knew what his strengths were, Willem had a smile that was disarmingly self-deprecating. “I’m just a landless nobody, Jouglet. And I doubt there was a single lady of the dozen-odd you introduced me to who found my shyness the least bit…chivalrous.”
“Ach, don’t talk like that,” Jouglet said, with a dismissive gesture. “You’re better with deeds than words, and what lady doesn’t like great deeds? If they want you to be a poet as well, I’ll teach you all my arts. But you’ll be a great success as you are.” As Willem stood in the middle of his room, looking vaguely about for his bed-robe, the minstrel stepped up to him and chummily grabbed his muscled bicep. “After all, it’s— “
Jouglet paused, and Willem saw a look on his friend’s face that he recognized, found innately complimentary, but still was shocked to see there: the pleased and hungry flash of smile that the Widow Sunia made when first she’d touched his body. If Jouglet had made the face and then exaggerated it, the moment could have been lightly dismissed. But Jouglet, having involuntarily smiled, turned scarlet and released his arm abruptly, as if physically shocked. The two of them exchanged accidental, unnerved glances, and Willem stepped away.
“As I meant to say— ” Jouglet tried again after a moment, unsteadily and too loudly, then with exaggerated machismo reached again for Willem’s arm. Willem pulled it out of reach. But he really only wanted Jouglet to make a clever joke of it.
Jouglet did not make a clever joke of it. In fact, Jouglet— still scarlet— looked as surprised as Willem felt, and stared at the knight’s bulky arm as if it were some mythical beast.
“Why don’t you go now,” Willem said. “It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He disentangled his shirt from his tunic and pulled it back on, then with sudden busyness began to look around the chamber for his robe. He threw open a chest and rummaged roughly through its contents.
Jouglet coughed uncomfortably. “Why are you throwing me out?”
Willem continued to rummage without answering, and with exasperation slammed shut the chest. “Where is my robe?”
“It’s here on your bed,” Jouglet said and took a step toward it.
“Stay away from my bed,” Willem warned.
“You’re being absurd,” Jouglet said, sounding more nervous than Jouglet had ever sounded before. “I am not leaving until you calm down.”
Willem turned, glaring to hide his discomfort, and ordered, “Calm me down, then. Give me reason to be calm.” He felt his teeth gritting as he added, “Tell me what Brother Paul would say if he were here.” Again all he wanted was to hear Jouglet make light of it; again, Jouglet looked too spooked to think of levity.
As if the heavens were looking out for their friendship, they were at that moment interrupted by a clamor outside. Young Erec threw open the door and, his face flushed with wine and the exertions of the Vesper practice, cried out joyfully, “I’ve just learned where the common women are! Want to come along?”
“Yes,” they both said, very quickly and too loud.
* * *
It was a quarter-mile’s walk to the town’s west gate, through streets increasingly greased with dank muck, untended sewers full of rotting offal, and the stench of tanners’ vats. It was not really dark enough yet for lamps, but Willem was holding one because that gave him something to do. He was silent, letting Erec’s drunken chatter and Jouglet’s occasional darting quip fill the air. After several streets, the putrid odors of the vats finally softened to the buttery smell of tanned leather in the heart of the leatherworkers’ quarter. Erec regaled them with a detailed history of his whoring but admitted with enthusiasm that he’d never been to an actual lair of sin like this; the common women he knew were itinerant and solitary. Jouglet assured him that was the general case, that they were lucky to be in Sudaustat, which provided more progressive attitudes and creature comforts for the lecherous— especially when a tournament was in town.
They neared the western wall. This portal got little direct traffic from the main trade route running up and down the Rhine valley, and was therefore considered the undesirable side of town. Clustered between open garden plots, garbage pits, and a one-room lepers’ hostel were the communities that good Christian society could not survive without but did not want to have to acknowledge: the Jews, the midwives and herbalists, and, of course, the prostitutes. It was strangely lively for so late in the day, and figures of various races and ages were squatting in their open doorways, gossiping about tomorrow’s tournament, listening to the doves’ and cuckoos’ insistent evening lullaby as the loud unmusical swallows finally began to quiet. Without exception the people in the streets and doorways greeted Jouglet with familiar warmth.
“You truly go to the common women?” Erec asked in slight disbelief.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Jouglet answered with an unwonted hint of defensiveness, stepping over a pothole filled with rusty-looking water. “I’m young and I’ve got a healthy appetite, but I can’t really lay a hand on the ladies of the court.” And adding with a slight swagger: “I’ve built a bit of a reputation for myself with these women.”
Erec snickered playfully. “Have you now? I hope I don’t usurp your throne.”
“You would be hard-pressed to,” Jouglet replied, puffing up. “Watch.”
Th
ey had reached the place, a small half-timbered building directly next to the western gatehouse. Like many properties, its narrow end opened to the street, and most of it was only on the ground floor. Like most buildings in this part of town, it was drab and rickety-looking— except for a bright scarlet swath of felt covering the door.
“Excellent dye job,” Erec said with studied insight. “They must have customers from Flanders.”
Willem threw open the door, and the three of them entered.
They found themselves in a small room filled with smoke from a damp central firepit and reeking from the smell of too many unwashed male bodies. There were a lot of young men, some older men, two priests— and a few women of different ages and shapes wearing a variety of worn-looking tunics and kirtles, each sporting a torn strip of scarlet cloth as an armband. A harried-looking silver-haired woman was in charge; she was bustling about the smoky room, selling bread and ale to the waiting men at exorbitant prices. The house was clearly not set up to accommodate this level of business; they had the tournament to thank for that.
“We’re here for the women,” Erec announced brashly and unnecessarily.
The old woman rushed by them without looking. She began to retort, “Well, you’ll just have to wait your— ” But then she noticed Jouglet, and paused at once to smile at the trio. “It’s His Majesty’s fiddler,” she said with friendly warmth, and finally looked at Erec— and then, with rather more attention, at Willem, who was one of the largest, most self-conscious men in the crowd. “We’ll see to you gentlemen right away, then.” Jouglet, feeling Erec’s surprise, grinned at him.