Revenge of the Rose

by Nicole Galland

  “Yes, sire,” Marcus said, and forced a smile. Throughout his youth he would have sold his soul for what was being offered; but now all he could think was that he had once again lost Imogen— and far worse, that whoever gained Imogen could denounce her on her wedding night. Some bridegrooms might wink at her soiled state, for the sake of her ample dowry; righteous Willem, if he got her, would never wink at anything. Marcus did a passable job of looking grateful, but Konrad knew him too well.

  “Do not annoy me, Marcus,” Konrad said through clenched teeth, sitting up a little. “Retire to your room to muse upon your extraordinary fortune— and don’t come out until you can demonstrate that you realize how indebted you are.”

  * * *

  Marcus stepped out of the emperor’s bedroom into the galley to the hall stairs, radiating unhappiness. He paused a moment by the guard’s station, torn between the urge to run back inside and fall pleading at Konrad’s feet, and rushing away somewhere, anywhere, to try to do something useful— but he could not imagine what.

  He stepped into the enclosed spiral stairs and came up short with an abbreviated gasp: Standing on the top step, with an air of having been waiting for him, was Cardinal Paul.

  “There is no love lost between us, steward,” Paul said softly. “But the ground we both tend knows a western weed in need of plucking. Shall we speak later?”

  So it’s come to this, Marcus thought, meeting the light eyes that were unnervingly similar to his lord and master’s. Would I join forces with one of the most loathsome men I know? And something inside him died as he realized that yes, he would.

  * * *

  By sunset, to Erec’s astonishment, they were in Montbéliard. “And we’ve been going up into the hills!” he exclaimed as they reined in near the manor house that overlooked the town. Their horses were exhausted. “This is farther than we got the first day when I came through with Willem!”

  Lienor was tired but pleased, almost preening, on her dun. She lowered her linen veil; there was the thinnest mask of tiredness around her eyes, creased in the corners, but otherwise she looked her usual pretty self. “God is smiling on our endeavor,” she announced. “We did not meet with bear or boar or wolf or wildcat or highwaymen of any sort. It was really rather dull, in fact. I’m starting to be suspicious of the tales of errant knights.”

  Erec, as a landed lord, had the right to demand shelter at other lords’ homes when evening fell. Lienor was nervous about taking this prerogative, but the only other option was to get rooms in the roadside inns, and he did not want to expose her to the gawking eyes of beggars, monks, and merchants— and far worse, men of his own breeding, young knights wandering the countryside looking for tournaments to win or heiresses to kidnap. They decided she would be disguised, to avoid being recognized by courtiers along the way and having word reach Konrad’s court ahead of time about her coming. Now she replaced the linen veil, bowed her head, and let him lead her up to the gate of the manor house.

  * * *

  That evening a mist blinded castle and township from each other. Willem picked at his supper in his room, and sent away his pages, who had offered to keep him company. When he had finished eating, he went to the door to call Musette to take his platter away. There was an unfamiliar figure climbing the steps to the outdoor landing toward him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, startled.

  Instead of answering right away, she smiled, and her smile made it clear to Willem exactly what her intentions were and her absolute certainty that she would achieve them. “His Majesty the Emperor asked me to pay you a visit.”

  Willem stared at her dumbfounded. She took another step toward him. His guilty conscience compared her immediately to Jouglet. She was just as cheerfully confident toward him, but the similarities ended there: she was smaller, prettier, infinitely more feminine in her demeanor and speech, and most impressive of all, she was rounder, softer, everywhere. She wore only a reddish cloak over her sleeveless shift, and when she stepped past him into his room she dropped the cloak to the floor.

  Still speechless— in part because he was a little drunk— he followed her back into his lamplit room. She glanced around, as if she had bought it and was trying to decide what changes to make. “You were the hero of the tournament, weren’t you?” she said, with a lazing, appraising voice that somehow still implied admiration. She was well schooled in this delivery, but Willem, not knowing that, was simply floored by her attention to him. “While I was watching you I hoped we’d have a chance to do this.”

  She strolled across the chamber and pushed open a shutter, which let in a little light, then considered the ambiance of the room, and pulled it closed again. Willem could only stare at her, and she enjoyed the staring, occasionally meeting his eye with a knowing look, which made him blush and look away. She crossed to the table, lifted up an unlit beeswax candle stub Konrad had given him, lit it by the fire in the lantern, then set the candle stub down again and blew out the brighter lamp. “There,” she said with calm satisfaction. “That’s what we want to start with, I think. Unless of course you’d like to see me more clearly while you are undressing me?” And she laughed softly because he seemed unable to speak. But when she said, teasing, “Shall I undress myself, then?” he made it clear at once that however mute he was, he was entirely ready to welcome her. She was soft in his arms; she smelled of rose water and cinnamon. She was entirely foreign in a way that Jouglet never could be, and he was fascinated by that, by her unknown-ness; she offered him no hint of her character, of her interests or passions or wit; she offered simply a female body and its willingness to please him. He did not even know her name. Possessing her was nothing whatsoever beyond the immediate moment of conquest and satisfaction.

  Nothing had ever felt so uncomplicated. It was enthralling.

  15

  Saga

  [the story of a great family told through several generations]

  23 July, night

  Marcus had a prie-dieu in his bedroom, and he knelt at it that evening with a dull sense of dread. He already knew there would be a rap from the passage that led to the hall, and knew who it would be, and why. So when it sounded, he sent the pages from their beds into the antechamber, and remained unmoving at the prie-dieu as the cardinal entered, striding into the small chamber and taking stock of it.

  Paul in a hungry mood was kinetic. He hardly stopped moving from the moment he entered— not as though he were nervous or angry, just so full of determined energy that he could not contain himself in one spot.

  “I will not ask your reasons, and you will not ask mine,” he said quietly without greeting or preamble. “But we both would benefit from Willem of Dole’s removal.”

  Marcus, still kneeling, kept his head bowed. “I admire the man and I would not have material harm befall him,” he replied, hardly above a whisper. “I don’t care if he remains at court as long as he doesn’t rob me of what’s mine.”

  “Nothing’s yours, Marcus, you’re a serf,” Paul said with a casual laugh, experimentally opening and closing the shutters of the windows looking onto the courtyard. There was an edge to the laugh, an edge Marcus remembered from their youth in the old emperor’s court. “Even if you were made a duke for marrying his bastard, it would profit you nothing. Your child would never gain. Who would marry the offspring of a serf and a bastard, even a royal serf and a royal bastard? Konrad is blinded by affection for you. It is an idiotic promotion, there’s no future advancement in it. Her inheritance accomplishes much greater good if it is given to the church.”

  “You’re right, Your Eminence, it is a foolish match and I want no part of it. Can you help me?”

  “Only if you help me,” said Paul. The wainscoted room was apparently far more engaging than its occupant, whom he had not yet bothered looking at. Now he turned his attention to the stand holding the washbasin and the pitcher. He poured fresh water into the basin, then delicately swished his hands around in it, delighting in keeping Marcus on edge. “She
’s my goddaughter and we’re both of the cloth. I know she doesn’t want to wed, and I can invoke God’s will to allow her to remain cloistered.”

  That was a wonderfully simple solution. “Will you do as much?” Marcus asked. “For your niece as well as for me?”

  “Certainly,” Paul said comfortably and reached for the hand towel. “If you help me remove Willem of Dole from the court.”

  Marcus did not move from the prayerful position. In a constricted voice, he whispered, “There are servants in the next room.”

  Paul strode instantly to the door and opened it. “Leave,” he ordered the page boys. “Go and wait down in the courtyard until we tell you that you may return.” He stood there, his head in the door until he had been obeyed, then returned to pacing the bedroom. “There are so many options available. The easiest, frankly, is to catch him in sodomy— “

  “That’s not necessarily a banishable offense,” Marcus said sardonically. “As you yourself know personally.”

  Paul reddened and turned on him in irritation. He tossed the hand cloth to the floor with a dramatic flourish. Marcus remained unmoving at the prie-dieu. After a moment, Paul said, in a meaningful tone, “As steward you have direct access to his food.”

  Marcus finally looked up, sharply. “I will not do that!” In a slightly softer voice, returning his head to a position of prayer, he muttered, as if astonished by the revelation, “In the name of Christ, you’re fouler than Alphonse.”

  “Speak to me with respect, you clod of dirt,” Paul snapped. He careened through the room again, now toward Marcus’s bed. “I am your better.”

  “No, Your Eminence,” Marcus said with a weary laugh. “You most certainly are not that. And it is enough, surely, that he leave the court.” He threw a suspicious glance up at Paul. “His sister is out of favor for empress. Thanks to the clod of dirt. Why are you still leery of him?”

  Paul hesitated. “None of your concern. Anyhow, until Konrad is actually married to Besançon, Lienor and therefore her brother are still thorns to me.”

  “But I have absolutely ruined Lienor’s chances for any future at all,” Marcus said in a tight voice. He felt a new wash of guilt: until this moment, only the inherent sin of lying had pained him, and the abstract fact of treachery; he had not thought much about the concrete, long-term consequences.

  “Your story could be called into question,” Paul said, throwing himself supine onto the angled bed. “Your word counts less than a free man’s in court, if it came to that. Jouglet is determined to warm Konrad to Lienor again. Jouglet is far more conniving and manipulative than you are. He’ll get his way.”

  “Then Jouglet is the one to get rid of!” Marcus said, agitated. His interlacing fingers jerked tightly, whitening his knuckles.

  Paul considered this. “True. Willem without Jouglet is nothing but a docile pup. Jouglet’s food can be…seasoned as easily as Willem’s, surely.” Seeing the look on Marcus’s face, Paul smiled paternally. “There is no risk to you, Marcus. I will supply the potion, I will assist you to expiate your sins, and I will cover for you should the law suspect you.”

  Marcus laughed sarcastically. “No. You’ll see the serf is hanged for it, and then you’ll be entirely free of suspicion.”

  Paul scowled and sat up a little. “I respect your intelligence, Marcus, please respect mine. You’ve been on warm terms with Jouglet for years, while both of you have no love for me. If you’re caught and you tell Konrad I’m behind it, he will believe you. So it is not in my interest for you to be caught.” He relaxed again against the striped head cushion and went on, comfortably. “There are poisons that kill painlessly. It’s not as if Jouglet were leaving behind mouths to feed. He’s just a vagabond.”

  “I will not kill an innocent man,” Marcus said weakly from the prie-dieu.

  “Oh?” Paul scoffed. He sat up, set his feet on the floor, his hands on his knees, and looked levelly at Marcus for the first time. “Then under the circumstances, how do you intend to get what you want?”

  Marcus considered for a moment. His heartbeat suddenly sounded louder to him. “I shall tell the truth,” he said at last.

  “You’ll tell Konrad that you lied about Lienor?”

  Marcus went white and scrambled to his feet. “What are you— “

  “An educated guess.” Paul smiled. “Calm yourself. It is the obvious answer, but Konrad cannot see it because he’s so accustomed to your integrity. We can use that, you know. We probably have three months left to exploit his blind trust before he grows suspicious, so we’ll have to work quickly to get everything we want.”

  Marcus fought back a wave of nausea. “We’ll do no such thing,” he said in a disgusted whisper. “I’ll go to him at once and explain everything.”

  With calm conviction, Paul announced, “If you confess to him now, you are a dead man. Do you understand that? He’ll have to kill you. Slander about his intended bride is a mild form of treason, plus you made him look like a fool— plus Willem will simply take your head off. I don’t know why you did it, but that will come to light as well, and I doubt to your benefit. Honesty is not an option open to you any longer, Marcus.” The smug grin on Paul’s face was welcoming, an invitation to embrace the fallen state and gain from it.

  “I shall at least make amends by being honest— from this moment forward,” the steward insisted.

  Paul laughed. “You can try that, but I doubt it will get you very far.” He rose and headed for the door with a lazy assurance that reminded Marcus of the emperor. “We’ll speak again when circumstances have made your choices a little clearer.”

  * * *

  “Jouglet,” said Marcus gravely in the shadows outside Konrad’s receiving chamber very soon after. “I want to show you something. Come with me to my chamber.” He followed the minstrel down the stairs.

  “He expects me back in a moment with a fresh flagon,” Jouglet protested.

  “That’s a lie. If you were going down to get wine you’d have taken the other stairway.”

  “He wants it mulled from the kitchen,” Jouglet insisted as they arrived on the pavement.

  “This will only take a moment.”

  Jouglet warily followed up the internal spiral stairs to Marcus’s rooms. A fire was already burning in the large anteroom, tended by a page boy, and a torch was lit; without pausing in his stride Marcus went straight to one of the ornate wooden chests lining his walls, and pulled open the top. He gestured for Jouglet to close the door, as he himself took out a battered-looking piece of parchment, an inkwell, and a reed pen.

  “What’s that for?” Jouglet asked, taken with his mysteriousness despite herself. He was a bastard, but at least he was more intriguing in despondency than Willem was.

  “Jouglet, I know you may be suspicious of me still, but you must believe one thing. I am in love with Alphonse’s daughter.”

  “Of course you are,” Jouglet said, hoping very much he wasn’t, and then realizing by the look on his face that in fact he was.

  Which was calamitous, because there wasn’t a thing Jouglet could do to change it.

  “I am. If you are serious in your desire to look out for my best interests, I beg you, work on Konrad and the count to go ahead with my marriage to Imogen.”

  So that was what he wanted after all. She blinked a few times quickly, trying to decide if Marcus, of all people, would let his personal desires ruin his emperor’s future.

  Marcus had misread her blank expression. “You don’t believe me that my only desire is Imogen. Witness me write to her so you can see firsthand how I feel about her.”

  “That really isn’t necessary,” Jouglet said, pretending to stifle a yawn. “I would like nothing more, Marcus, than to curl up before the fire now, and get some sleep. It has been a trying day.” She needed time alone, immediately, to sort this out.

  “I am going to write anyhow,” Marcus insisted. “Can you read? I want you to witness it. If you are sincere in your friendship to me, be my witnes
s in case someday I’m called to account for what’s happened.”

  “Very well,” the minstrel said at last, resigned. The pseudo-stifled yawn had made her realize how tired she actually was, and sore from resisting Paul’s attack in the cellar. And sore at Willem too. In fact, the whole day had been a quiet series of disasters. She bowed with a weary sort of archness. “Your witness.”

  He dipped the reed pen into the inkwell, and in his quick, efficient hand he wrote: “Imogen, my dear, my heart is full of you tonight. I see you in the face of every lady at court, and your image over theirs makes their faces seem that much lovelier, although none— “

  “Yes, all right, we do not need the poetry this evening,” Jouglet interrupted, reading along over his shoulder. “Just get to the point, I beg you, Marcus.”

  She tapped her foot while he continued his flowery language, and finally he wrote: “I am so distraught at this separation, my beloved, I do not know how to turn your father’s heart, or Konrad’s either anymore, to be kind to us. Please, if your able mind can think of anything, write to me at once. I will do your bidding without hesitation. My friend Jouglet, His Majesty’s musician, has promised to help us in any way he can, and is a witness to this letter. I send you as always my unending love, to be yours until death and beyond.” He signed it “M” with a very dramatic-looking flourish beneath it. “A love knot,” he explained, sounding so sheepishly sincere that Jouglet almost felt a twinge of pity for him. He sealed the note with wax and string, and then offered it to Jouglet. “You may see it messengered yourself,” he announced. Jouglet was impressed.

  “I will,” she warned, intrigued.

  Marcus gestured, pushed it more in Jouglet’s direction. “Please,” he offered.

  Jouglet opted merely to witness a page’s taking the note for dispatch, mostly because she did not want to be bothered with the task. The intent was what mattered, and what puzzled her. Even if Marcus loved the girl, he hardly knew her, and so Imogen, upon reading the note, would surely think the sender was insane. This was a risk Marcus was apparently prepared take. Why?