“Of course not, sire,” Marcus said, feeling ill. He could feel Jouglet staring at his back and wondered what the minstrel was assessing.
“And,” Konrad continued, “it will be painful for Willem to see you just now. Although I’ve missed you in your absence, for the next day or so, do not spend too much time in our presence. Catch up on your duties and then confine yourself to your quarters the rest of the day.”
“Yes, of course, sire.” Marcus bowed again, then turned around to face the window seat. “Good morning, Jouglet,” he said experimentally.
Jouglet was noncommittally polite. “Good morning, sir.”
“Are things fair between us?”
“As fair as Lienor’s darling sky blue eyes,” answered Jouglet blandly.
“Lienor’s eyes are green,” Marcus corrected.
Jouglet looked down a moment. “It is fair between us,” she allowed, almost sullenly. “But I adore the girl, sir, and this is a shock to me.”
“I know. I regret being the agent of your disillusion.” He turned back around to face Konrad. “Your Majesty, if I may distribute the morning alms?”
“Send for Willem to join us,” Konrad said in dismissal.
Marcus suppressed a groan and said he would see to it.
* * *
Jouglet had gone down to the hall before Willem arrived, anticipating the worst. The knight looked miserable when he entered, even more haggard than at his exhausting triumph at the tournament, just ten days earlier. He was dressed entirely in dark brown; with his grimness, his broken nose made him less like a warrior than a hardened thug. He kept his left hand clutched on his sword belt, as if he expected to be called upon to defend his honor at any moment.
It had become clear at castle mass that the revelation was generally known. The source of the leak was probably a page boy, no doubt bribed or threatened by Paul, but Jouglet had to admit to herself, feeling sick, that her own relentlessness in the courtyard yesterday had helped to bring attention to it. Every pair of eyes, aristocratic and servile alike, rested on Willem for a moment as he walked to the high table, and he seemed to feel each glance as if it were a branding iron. Finally he turned toward Boidon and caught the chamberlain in the act of staring; Boidon looked abashed and greeted him with sympathetic courtesy. The sympathy felt insulting to Willem.
He took a few steps farther, then paused and turned his gaze on another set of prying eyes, surprising Richard of Mainz, the first knight he had defeated in armed combat here. Willem’s grip reflexively tightened on his sword. Richard, equally embarrassed for having been caught staring, bowed respectfully— and sympathetically.
The next pair of eyes Willem intuited, and turned to face, belonged to someone who had been trying very hard to earn his friendship: Alphonse, Count of Burgundy. The knight bowed politely, with the diffidence of a younger man to an older one. “Good morning, milord count,” he said with a feeble attempt at a smile.
Alphonse nodded brusquely and hurriedly busied himself with something that required him to turn his back on Willem.
Dammit, thought Jouglet, who saw the moment from behind Konrad’s table, and saw Willem’s face turn pink. She hurried around the dais to distract him, plucked him by the arm, and dragged him toward the row of boys holding the silver washbasins along the western bank of windows.
“My sister’s sin is costing me my friends,” he whispered bitterly as they walked.
“Alphonse never was your friend,” Jouglet assured him. “And I know you never liked him.” She held her fingers over the bowl and let the boy pour the floral-scented water over them.
“He’s treated me with respect this past fortnight,” Willem argued quietly, hands clasped together on his sword belt. “Do you know how satisfying that felt? Like a man of his own standing— “
“Or potentially better than his standing, which is the only reason he was ever kind to you. That wounds you?” she whispered impatiently, seeing the look on his face. “Then you lack both the head and the hide for this world I’ve brought you to.” She knew it sounded unsympathetic, but she was desperate to keep him away from the maudlin depths she suspected he was capable of. For the first time, she wondered if her affection for him had led to severe misjudgment. Perhaps he really was too pure, too good, to survive a royal elevation. Frustrated by his distractedness, she tugged at his sleeve to bring his attention to the washbasin. “Konrad values you no less, he expressly asked me to take you to the high table to show the others there is no disgrace to you. Wash your hands.”
After they’d dried their hands, she hesitated a moment before leading him to the upper end of the hall, because she wanted to read the room. Her eyes as usual were on everyone at once. She saw the cardinal, in an unseemly cheerful mood, enter and approach Alphonse at the lower end of the hall, speaking in quiet, earnest tones. So Paul was already capitalizing on Lienor’s fall to champion the Besançon woman as future empress. As she watched, there was a brief fanfare and two pages entered, followed by Konrad and a bodyguard.
The emperor paused, meaningfully. Paul, feeling his brother’s glare, broke off the conversation and followed Konrad dutifully past the bowed heads of Jouglet, Willem, and dozens more to the high table. Alphonse stayed a moment by the door, looking contemplative.
“Whoreson,” Jouglet muttered, which conveniently referred to both of Konrad’s kinsmen.
At the lower end of the hall, at the small south-facing window, Marcus was testing the consequences of his venture. He had to win back that whoreson count’s regard, or this would all have been for nothing. “Will your lordship be seated?” he asked Alphonse, gesturing toward the high table.
The count had been in another world, preoccupied by Paul’s coaxing machinations about the future of the empire. He started at the familiar voice. “What? Oh— am I welcome there today?”
“Indeed your lordship is always very welcome at the table of your royal nephew, as your lordship intends to marry your daughter to an intimate of His Majesty,” Marcus said with marvelous vagueness.
Alphonse looked like a rat caught pulling cheese from a trap. “Did I say I was marrying her to that landless brawler? I never said that— “
“Of course you didn’t, milord,” Marcus agreed, trying to keep his voice smooth. With a smile, he excused himself to see to the servers.
But he could not see to the servers, because Willem, oblivious to his presence, was in his way, agile Jouglet at his elbow as they dawdled toward the dais. A wave of dread washed over the steward, but he made himself keep walking.
Jouglet sensed him approach and stepped aside to observe. Willem, at her withdrawing, turned to follow her gaze— and seeing Marcus, froze and looked down at once. They were almost dead center in the room and eyes were turning toward them.
“My lord,” Marcus said in a soft, earnest voice. “Again I beg your forgiveness.”
Willem shook his head and pushed aside some strewing herbs with his foot. “I cannot give it yet.” He looked Marcus briefly in the face; those eyes were so startlingly hurt and honest that the steward very nearly confessed to everything. “Perhaps there’ll be a day when I can look back at this without grief, but for the moment, do not be insulted if I remove myself from you to protect my own heart.” He returned his attention to the floor.
Marcus sighed. With relief, but he managed to make it sound passably like regret. Only Willem— only good, upright, honest, chivalrous Willem, who did not understand how absolutely powerless Marcus was, despite his rank— would offer to remove himself, instead of demanding Marcus’s own removal. “Your lordship— “
“I am not a lord,” Willem corrected, still to the floor.
“A lord among men,” said Marcus quietly, without a trace of irony or bathos. His regard for Willem’s character was real— which was what most confounded Jouglet. Jouglet was trying to decipher everything that passed between them in some way that would trip the steward up, betray the aim of his scheming. But Marcus’s face gave nothing away.
Once on the dais, Willem bowed and accepted his now-customary seat to Konrad’s right. Without appetite he waited for the morning meal to be served. Jouglet withdrew to the lower end of the hall, near the drafty door, almost near the serfs— the proper place for minstrels and other vagabonds, no matter how beloved.
Seeing Willem was in no mood for conversation, Konrad turned to his brother. “I see you wasted no time luring Alphonse back to Rome’s matrimonial campaign.”
“It is not a matter of luring, brother,” Paul said with his smarmy smile. “I think in his heart our uncle has always held your best interests supreme, and he is entirely aware that a lord’s daughter is more fit for you than is some pretty orphan girl, even if she had been pure.”
Willem involuntarily made an angry sound and slammed the side of his fist on the table boards, making the saltcellar jump. The royal brothers looked at him, and he turned his head away, ashamed by his lapse of control.
Konrad’s attention snapped back around toward Paul. “That was a gratuitously uncouth comment to make in present company,” he barked. “If you cannot be decent, leave my table at once and take your meal in the scullery like the sullen, nasty little cat you really are.”
Paul flushed as Willem looked back toward them. “Sire,” the knight said in a quiet voice, “my presence here this morning is not evoking the best in anybody.”
“What, that? I bark at Paul all the time.” Konrad laughed, a little forced. “He likes it. It makes him purr.”
“I believe my appearing this morning does not contribute to the good spirit of the court in general,” Willem insisted in the same quiet voice. “To avoid an even greater rudeness, before the meal begins, I would ask Your Majesty’s permission to withdraw back to my lodgings.”
“It would be much more interesting were you to challenge Marcus to single combat,” Konrad said, awkwardly attempting levity.
Willem shook his head. “I considered that, but it would be wrong of me to set on someone who is not my equal, and although his martial exploits are renowned, his leg wound makes it impossible for him to have a fair chance.”
Konrad stared at him. “Willem, my brother, you are too good for your own good. I’d be displeased at your withdrawal, but I would understand it. If I had a sibling whose virtue I believed in the least bit, I’d no doubt be destroyed to learn otherwise. Luckily, there were never any illusions in my case.”
“Nor mine,” Paul retorted quickly, aping his brother’s tone.
Konrad ignored him. “Under the circumstances do what best suits your own humor— but do not let your humor be permanently altered.”
“Of course not, sire,” Willem said with resignation. He stood, bowed, and drew away from the table.
Jouglet, from her perch near the door, watched him cross by her and leave the room. She looked at once toward the emperor. Konrad met the gaze; he gestured for the minstrel to follow after Willem. Jouglet picked up the fiddle case from the corner and darted out of the hall.
“And what sort of fiddling do you think that presages?” Paul whispered with amusement in Konrad’s ear. “The brother is worse than the sister, sire, admit it. But don’t fret, Konrad, remember it is only a landless knight. If his character, when tested, disappoints you, it’s not as if you’ve lost an important member of your court.”
Konrad made an impatient face. “For a shepherd of human souls, you have remarkably little understanding of your flock.”
* * *
Back at the inn, Willem threw himself onto the broad bed with a groan. “I never want to set foot in the castle again,” he announced.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jouglet scoffed.
He rolled over lugubriously to look up at her. “You were not sent to chastise me, you were sent to comfort and distract me.”
They looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Then:
“You cannot possibly mean that as a proposition,” Jouglet informed him, with a short, harsh laugh. She set down the fiddle case by the open door.
“What else is there to do?” Willem demanded gruffly. “I can’t show my face in public thanks to her.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Jouglet closed the door firmly behind her, shutting out some of the hum of the courtyard and street. “There is one agreement we must come to, which is that your sister is innocent. Your hiding your face will be taken as confirmation of her guilt.”
“Listen to me, Jouglet.” Willem sat up and rested his hands on his thighs, agitated but controlled. “She has spent the last five years practically locked up in that house. Since we left our wardship with our uncle and I took up the fief myself, I have been…” He took an agitated breath. “I’ve been her jailor,” he said, and his voice broke. “And this is the result.”
Jouglet watched him struggle to stay controlled. “Is that belief what kept you awake all night?” she asked gently, taking a step closer to the bed.
He buried his face in one hand. “There were signs of the rogue in her from very early. Others suffered for it— someone dear to me was killed for it.” He crossed himself reflexively. “I hoped if I kept a tight enough rein on her perhaps I could keep her from further mischief. I should have let one of those rich lords take her as a mistress— at least then when this side of her revealed itself it would reflect on him and not on me.”
“Willem!” Jouglet scolded. “That sentiment is”— she struggled to find words— “lamentably expectable, from any man’s mouth but yours. This is a scheme of Marcus’s, I swear.”
“You think just because you live for scheming others do as well,” Willem countered, taking his head out of his hand. “I have no energy for such games, myself. And from what I know of Marcus, he doesn’t either— he has always been the soul of integrity.”
She could not argue this point, except to say, “He isn’t now. But you’re right, he’s not accustomed to deceit, so if we find the right obstacle for him, he’ll trip over it. But I need you at the castle to help me find it.”
“Scheming again,” Willem said heavily, with distaste.
After a pause, she sat beside him on the bed and tried another tack. “You were to have prospered by this wedding— you would have been the emperor’s brother. Do you so lack ambition that you will fall over at this vicious rumor and give that up?”
“Is the issue my sister’s prospects, or my own?” Willem asked in a tired voice. “I’m not dependent on Lienor’s fate for my own fortune.”
“You must be the emperor’s brother to get the right bride.”
“Konrad is fond of me. He’s going to make me the first Imperial Knight, and if I asked it he would find me a proper wife.”
“Proper for a landless knight,” Jouglet corrected, slapping her knee with frustration. “You deserve a better wife than that. You deserve a marriage worthy of the emperor’s own kinsman.”
Willem looked at her. “There is an obvious option you’re ignoring. The emperor is very generous to his cronies— look what he’s done for Marcus. If his court musician were to unmask herself, and then retire to marry me, I think she would earn quite a fat— “
Jouglet’s face pursed up with irritation. “I knew you were thinking that!” she snapped, and stood up, taking an aggravated step away from the bed. “Put it out of your mind, this moment and forever.”
“Why?” Willem demanded.
“We’ve been over this.” She pulled a window shutter closed and lowered her voice. “Konrad would not reward me for duping him for years, he would kill me— I mean that literally, Willem, he would have me executed.”
“No he wouldn’t,” Willem assured her.
“Don’t you know Paul had three men who lived as women whipped last week— one of them was hanged.”
“Yes, I saw the body in the square,” Willem said gruffly. “Konrad rebuked Paul for inciting it; nothing like that will happen again soon. But you are something else altogether. And even if you weren’t, surely you would be exempt from such punishment.”
“Oh yes? What would save me, Konrad’s profound regard for women? At best he would have me banished to someplace far enough away that nobody would know he had been gulled.” She moved to stand before him, almost scolding. “I will not be a woman in this court, Willem. Women in this court are chattel. We are not the happy couple of Erec and Enite. This is not a romance where love and marriage have the chance to commingle and take precedence. I am not your lady, and I’m not your wife, nor am I fit material for either.”
Willem made an angry noise and stood up, fists clenched. Then, just as abruptly, he deflated and sank back onto the bed. “That is not proper, Jouglet. And I cannot expect Lienor to be superior to me. I was thinking about this last night, it is part of what kept me awake. If she must be proper, then so must I.”
“What does that mean?” Jouglet asked, certain she did not really want to know. She took a step away from where he sat.
“Reveal yourself.”
“No,” she said with absolute finality.
“I want to make what is between us right. No more shameful secrets.”
“Stealing my breeches, and all the freedom that comes with them— that would make it right?” she demanded, leaning against the wall. “I fail to see how.”
He sighed and threw himself back on the bed, trying to think of how to say what was disturbing him. “I don’t want to steal anything from you. But I want things irreproachable, and proper. I want a proper woman.”
“There is one under my clothes,” Jouglet offered drolly and reached for her belt.
“I don’t mean hidden!” Willem said with exasperation. “I need there to be nothing suspect in my reputation. We are in real danger with Paul.”
“I know that!” Jouglet said impatiently, letting go of her belt. “Why do you think I’ve been so careful about our assignations all week?”
“I mean I need to be generally known as having a woman.”
“I know that too! I offered to help you snare a lady, and you declined the offer,” Jouglet said, in a tone not of complaint but observation. “Now you want a lady after all?”
Revenge of the Rose Page 28
