Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Janet Trautvetter

  DARK AGES

  TOREADOR

  Ninth of the Dark Ages Clan Novels

  By Janet Trautvetter

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Dark Ages Toreador is a product of White Wolf Publishing.

  White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.

  Copyright © 2003 by White Wolf Publishing.

  First Printing December 2003

  Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive

  AD 1224 to 1230

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

  Visit the Crossroad site for information about all available products and authors

  Check out our blog

  Subscribe to our Newsletter for information about new releases, promotions, and to receive a free eBook

  Find and follow us on Facebook

  We hope you enjoy this eBook and will seek out other books published by Crossroad Press. We strive to make our eBooks as free of errors as possible, but on occasion some make it into the final product. If you spot any problems, please contact us at crossroad@crossroadpress.com and notify us of what you found. We’ll make the necessary corrections and republish the book. We’ll also ensure you get the updated version of the eBook.

  If you have a moment, the author would appreciate you taking the time to leave a review for this book at the retailer’s site where you purchased it.

  Thank you for your assistance and your support of the authors published by Crossroad Press.

  Table of Contents

  What Has Come Before

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  What Has Come Before

  It is the year 1224, and two decades of warfare and intrigue among the living and the dead show every sign of giving way to a third. A futile Fifth Crusade brought Germans and Hungarians to the Holy Land and sent them back with little to show for it; the French continue to war against the Albigensian heretics in the Languedoc; and the Teutonic Knights hold lands in Eastern Hungary to the increasing distaste of that land’s king.

  Away from the eyes of the living, in the shadowy world of the undead, matters are even worse. Alexander, the ancient vampire who has ruled Paris for many centuries, has been deposed by his own childe, Sir Geoffrey. Exiled into the east, Alexander heads into the Holy Roman Empire searching for support in his quest to avenge himself and regain his throne.

  Among his company is Rosamund of Islington, who had been ambassador to Alexander’s court from the Queens of Love—the vampires who hold domain over much of the rest of France. To Rosamund’s dismay, it is now clear that the Queens were largely responsible for the plot that undid Alexander. They call his downfall justice for the long-ago murder of his consort Lorraine, who had been gifted to him by the Queens. That her mission of goodwill was a distraction came as a great shock to Rosamund, who now finds herself with few allies in exile. Alexander’s own feelings toward her seem a mixed blessing—clearly smitten, the ancient and obsessive vampire has chosen to believe Rosamund’s proclamations of innocence, but with every passing night he seems more determined to make her his new consort. Rosamund’s existence may have been spared at the simple cost of her soul.

  Meanwhile, few seem to remember the fall of Constantinople twenty years ago or the quest by some of the undead survivors of that blaze to restore it to its former glory….

  Chapter One

  Heidelberg, Rhenish Palatinate, Holy Roman Empire

  Feast of the Invention of the Cross, May, 1224

  “There, milord.” The undead knight pointed to a tall house at the end of the block. “You find him there.”

  Sir Josselin de Poitiers took a moment to decipher his guide’s bad French, and then favored the younger Cainite with a smile. “Thank you. And my thanks to your most esteemed sire as well, for troubling himself over a stranger’s quest.”

  The German bowed from horseback. “Honored to serve, noble sir. Good night to you. I must return. Thank you.”

  “Milady might wish to thank you herself,” Josselin suggested. “Surely your sire does not expect you back immediately, does he?”

  “Yes. No, I cannot stay.” In fact, he was already turning his horse. “God keep you, milord. Good even to you!” He dug his heels into his mount’s sides. With a somewhat alarmed look, his ghoul escort turned to follow, carrying the lantern with him. Within a moment, they had turned a corner and vanished from sight.

  “Milord?” Fabien looked at his master, and then at the house. “Was he afraid?”

  Josselin turned his smile on his squire, and saw Fabien’s unease melt away. “There’s no need to worry, Fabien. Come now, let us surprise milady!”

  “Josselin! How did you—Holy Mary, it is good to see you!”

  Josselin caught her rush and swept her up into his arms, lifting her up off the floor—it was such a joy just to hold her and know she was safe. “Rosamund. My sweet lady, ma petite fleur,” he said, grinning broadly, setting her down again and kissing both cheeks and then her lips with equal enthusiasm. “How could I not find you? All I had to do was follow the light of your beauty.”

  She smiled, but didn’t respond to his opening gallantries. “I have missed you so, Sir Josselin,” she said. “Wait—wait. I mustn’t forget. Margery.”

  “Milady?” Rosamund’s mortal companion, whose smile was nearly as wide as her mistress’s, rose from her seat, setting her needlework aside.

  “Go and tell his Highness—well, tell Gaston to tell his Highness, that would be better. Tell him that my brother has arrived from—from Chartres.”

  “Yes, milady.” Margery curtsied, and departed.

  Rosamund took Josselin’s hand and led him to a cushioned bench. “How are things at home? How is our lady? Tell me everything! The cathedral, how is the cathedral?”

  “Sweet Rosamund. You cannot imagine how worried I’ve been.” Josselin had trouble containing his relief just to see her again. “I did not want to leave you, you must believe that. When I heard about—”

  She laid her fingers across his lips, silencing him, shaking her head. “Not now, Josselin,” she murmured. “Please. The cathedral?”

 
Josselin had not existed for nearly a century in Cainite courts without learning when to recognize a warning, and the circumstance of their parting was clearly not a safe topic for conversation. “Still under construction, of course,” he answered, taking her cue. “But they’ve been adding the saints to guard the buttresses. They’re carved from the finest limestone, brought all the way from the quarries on the Seine, near Paris. And they each get their own little alcove, way, way up near the top, so they have a good view, each in their own little shrine with a roof over their heads to keep them from the weather. And the window—oh, Rosamund, you should see the window!”

  “Oh? Tell me! Which one?”

  “Over the west portal, up on the third tier. A great round window with a rose cut out of the middle of the stone, and twelve more little roses for the Twelve Apostles, cut around it in a ring. And the petals of each rose are filled with paintings in colored glass. Fabien tells me that in the sunlight, it is truly glorious. They even call it a rose window, because of the shaping of the stone.”

  Rosamund drew a deep breath. “I wish I could see it.”

  “You will,” he assured her firmly. “They’re still building the rest of it. It will be waiting for you, as patiently as only stone can wait.”

  “I miss it. I’ve missed you. I can’t even recall when I last had a letter.”

  “Nor can I.” Josselin’s voice turned serious. “Which is part of what has brought me here. Our queen was concerned for you. So was I. We’ve had no word since a month after you left Paris.”

  “But I’ve written! I have! Let me see—once from Nancy, that was in August.”

  “Yes, I believe I saw that one.”

  “And then from Lebach, and from—oh, I don’t remember the names of the towns, it’s all a blur. But twice more since then, at least. I even sent one with my own Henry, before Christmas! I was writing another tonight, to send before we left Heidelberg. Peter told me he found a man to take it.”

  “Well, I have brought you a letter, petite fleur. Several letters, in fact. One from our sire, of course, but also others. It seems you have left many broken hearts in your wake.”

  “No, not those.” She put her hand on his arm where he was reaching for the purse at his hip. “I’ll look at them later. Put them away, quickly!”

  “Rosamund?” Josselin took her hands between his. “You used to enjoy hearing from your admirers—no matter how atrocious their verse. I brought them all the way from Paris just for you.”

  “Yes, I know, Josselin, and I thank you. It’s so kind of you to bring them for me. But I would much rather talk to you than read a bunch of moldy old letters. Letters will keep, won’t they?”

  “They’ll keep, of course. Even the queen’s letter will keep. It’s not like she expects an answer back right away! But tell me of your journey. How has the road treated you? Have you won any more hearts along the way?”

  She smiled, but it lacked enthusiasm. “The road has been long, milord. Very long. Few courts have offered us welcome, or at least not sincerely.”

  “I daresay that’s true, especially in the Empire. Does he think Lord Hardestadt will offer him sanctuary, then?”

  “I don’t know. But we know that Mithras of London will not.” She paused, a faraway look in her eyes. “Must we speak of politics, Josselin?”

  “What then would milady wish to hear?” he asked amiably. “The latest canso from Provence? A stroke-by-stroke account of my last melee with Sir Philippe d’Anjou? Or—”

  She stood up, abruptly. “He’s coming.”

  Alexander. Josselin suppressed a moment of near-panic—he had been forced to flee Paris on the eve of Alexander’s overthrow, lest his knowledge of the plot compromise Rosamund’s own innocence in it. How would his presence now be received by the exiled prince? But it was too late to change his course now, and courtly etiquette came to him as easily as riding; he rose to his feet and took two steps forward, going down to one knee as the door opened. Rosamund, already closer to the door, dropped into a deep curtsy.

  The former Prince of Paris entered the room. His youthful appearance could be deceptive at a first glance. Alexander had been little more than a boy when brought to eternity, a slender adolescent with short-cropped dark curls and the face of an angel. Only his dark, brooding eyes, and his capacity for absolute stillness when not actually walking betrayed his immense age—Josselin had heard he was well over a thousand years old. Whatever the truth, the power fueling his personality drew the attention of onlookers like a lodestone. When Alexander was present, all other thoughts, desires or concerns simply ceased to matter.

  Josselin caught himself staring, and quickly bowed his head. But the prince seemed to take no offense at his lapse of proper courtesies.

  “Sir Josselin—what an unexpected pleasure.” Alexander spoke French with just the faintest trace of accent, though of what Josselin was unable to tell. “How good of you to visit us in our exile. I’m sure milady Rosamund is quite delighted to see a familiar face—I know how much she misses the comforts of home.”

  “Thank you for your welcome, Highness,” Josselin replied, raising his head now that he had been acknowledged.

  Alexander appropriated the room’s single chair and, as such, made it a throne. “We’re glad you made it safely, of course. The journey must have been perilous indeed, for you to come armed into a lady’s bower.”

  “I will disarm if you wish it, Highness.” Josselin held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of peace. “And humbly beg your pardon.”

  “I do not fear your sword, sir knight. Keep it. We give you leave to go armed in our presence.”

  Josselin bowed his head again for a moment. “Your Highness is most generous.”

  “Come, rise, Sir Josselin. Gaston—bring a chair for milady and her kinsman. I would have him feel himself an honored guest in our court, however far from home we now sit.”

  Josselin rose smoothly to his feet and offered his hand to Rosamund, to escort her to the bench the mortal now set at the prince’s side.

  “Ah, ever the courtier,” remarked Alexander, though he smiled when he said it.

  “Courtesy to a lady is a pleasure, Highness, as well as a duty,” Josselin bowed again, respectfully, before taking his own seat across from them, carefully lifting his sheathed sword to rest on the bench beside him.

  “Of course,” the prince returned. “Especially when the lady is so fair.” He turned and smiled at Rosamund.

  Rosamund seemed to relax somewhat in the light of that smile. Her posture, which had been far more stiff and formal, softened, though Josselin noted her hands remained clasped together on her lap. “You flatter me, Highness,” she demurred.

  “And you are modest as ever, milady.” Alexander turned back to Josselin. “Now, milord. Tell me how Paris fares these nights.”

  Josselin had rarely seen the Prince of Paris save during formal court occasions. During the last months of Alexander’s reign, it had been Rosamund who had been the official ambassador, and he merely her escort. Alexander’s gracious welcome surprised him; he was suddenly aware of the great honor of the prince’s regard. “It—fares well enough, Highness,” he answered, suddenly sorry he could bring no better news. He dug in his memory of court gossip for something better, to ease the sting. “There are those who say Geoffrey owes too much to too many—that he has mortgaged his power to gain it, and it is Queen Salianna who truly rules, over Paris and over him. He has driven the Heresy out of Paris; those who held to it have fled to the south. Those whom he caught, he burnt, both Cainite and mortal alike.”

  “I’m sure that God found the odor of such sacrifices most pleasing,” Alexander murmured. “And what of the Courts of Love—do the other queens rejoice now that Salianna has come to rule over them?”

  “No ruler rejoices to be ruled by another, Highness,” Josselin remarked wryly, and felt a warm flush of triumph at Alexander’s soft chuckle.

  “Tell me then. How stands the alliance between Saliann
a and your Queen Isouda?”

  Memories bubbled up unbidden, Isouda’s sharp words pushing their way to his tongue alongside others spawned by his own dislike of Salianna, based on decades of mortal service. He thought instead of the cathedral and its silent saints before he made his answer. “Chartres stands but a hundred miles from Paris. My queen has her own domain and vassals to rule, and the Grand Court has acknowledged her sovereignty. There stands milady’s alliance, as it must, your Highness.”

  “And what of the Countess Melusine? Does she still lick her wounds and hide in Mithras’s shadow?”

  This was at least a safer question. “From all accounts, she looks to Mithras to win back Anjou for her—which he seems strangely disinclined to do.”

  “You fought at La Roche-aux-Moines, did you not, Sir Josselin?”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “No doubt your valor on the field of battle brought great honor to your queen. I’m sure she was appropriately grateful for your service afterwards?”

  “She thanked me, your Highness. I asked for nothing more than to serve her well.”

  “You fought for me that night as well.”

  Josselin bowed his head briefly. “As milady commanded, yes, your Highness, I did.”

  “I don’t believe I thanked you at the time—so allow me remedy that omission now.” Alexander pulled a ring from his own finger and held it out. “Take this, as a poor token of my gratitude for your good service, Sir Josselin de Poitiers, and in hopes that one night you may serve me again.”

  Josselin slipped down from the bench to one knee at Alexander’s feet, and bowed his head. “Your Highness honors me,” he said. “If my queen so commands it, I will.” He accepted the gift—to do otherwise would have been a grave insult—and slipped the ring on his finger.