“Ah, here is milady,” Alexander’s silhouette was pulsing dark blues and pale greens as he turned towards her. Beside him, Josselin’s taller form was edged with softer hues, sky blue swirled with green and occasional flashes of dark purple. The colors were reassuring—so far, so good. He won’t do anything foolish. He promised.
She curtsied, letting the kirtle’s full skirt flare out around her. “I beg your pardon, your Highness, my lords, if my tardiness has caused any inconvenience.”
“It is of no matter, milady,” Alexander held out his hand to her in invitation. “We must allow a lady sufficient time for her toilette! But come now, Sir Josselin has presented a proposal for our consideration.”
Rosamund came demurely to the prince’s side, letting the ghostly colors fade from her vision and the material world take on more clarity. “A proposal, milord? Of what sort?”
Josselin still wore his sword, but over his tunic and surcoat instead of mail, and he’d gotten Fabien to cut his hair to a more fashionable length. He gave Rosamund one of his more subdued courtly smiles and a perfectly executed bow as she joined them.
“It seems,” Alexander answered her, “that Sir Josselin believes you are in need of a guardian.”
“A guardian?” she echoed, carefully modulating her pitch so she sounded curious, but not dismissive.
“I have of course assured him that I hold you in the highest regard, and that you are safe and under my complete protection.” Alexander had kept hold of her hand. Now he drew her closer to him so he could kiss it.
Josselin watched this stoically. “It is the desire of my queen that the Lady Rosamund remain safe, of course, both now and in the future.”
“And that is my desire too,” Alexander replied easily, smiling at Rosamund. “And I would think it would be your desire also, milord, as well as your queen’s.”
Rosamund wished she dared look, give Josselin what silent support she could, but the negotiation—for negotiation it was—was already delicate enough.
“It is, your Highness,” Josselin admitted. “That is why I have traveled so far—to assure my queen and myself of Lady Rosamund’s present and future well-being. It is the wish of her majesty, Queen Isouda, that I continue in this quest for as long as necessary, so I may continue to assure her, and ease her concerns over this her childe, now traveling so far from home.”
Alexander turned to face the knight, and Rosamund was able to do so as well. She could see Josselin’s posture stiffen, heard his slight inhalation as Alexander’s gaze fell on him.
But Alexander was not yet done with negotiating.
“I would be delighted beyond measure,” he said, “if I could end her traveling and return her to her rightful home—indeed, give her a place of the highest honor at my side. Unfortunately, there are obstacles that prevent me from fulfilling the queen’s desire to see her childe again—despite my best intentions.”
“Those obstacles are not of my queen’s making, your Highness, nor under her control.”
“Aren’t they? I should think that at least some of them might be manageable—she is, after all, still queen in her own domains, is she not?” Alexander’s voice sharpened, and his eyes narrowed slightly.
Josselin flinched and looked away for a second. “I am not—not given authority to speak for milady on that matter,” he said.
Alexander waited, as unmoving and still as a statue of marble, dark eyes staring without even blinking. He seemed totally oblivious to Rosamund at his side, though he still held her hand.
Josselin recovered. “Milady has not spoken her mind to me on these obstacles,” he amended. “However, if my boon is granted, I would gladly serve as her continuing emissary in this regard, and convey your Highness’s own missives with my own.”
“It is a boon you ask, then,” Alexander said at last. “For yourself, Sir Josselin, or do you ask on behalf of your queen?”
Josselin, no. Rosamund wanted to say something, interrupt, claim the boon herself if she had to, but her voice seemed trapped in her throat, just as her fingers were trapped in Alexander’s hand.
“I ask on my own behalf, your Highness,” Josselin answered. “I cannot guarantee what response my queen might give, only—”
“Then I will grant it,” Alexander interrupted. “On one condition, which under the circumstances, I’m sure you’ll agree is fair enough.”
“And what is milord’s condition?” Josselin asked, a bit warily.
“Our route takes us through the domains of many powerful princes. All who travel with me travel under my protection, and as such, all who travel with me must also swear an oath of fealty to me, an oath that is sealed with my blood. Will you swear, Sir Josselin?”
No! Rosamund dared to move her head sideways, just slightly, in hopes he’d heed her.
Josselin’s eyes flicked to hers, and back. Alexander noticed.
“Yes, even my sweet Lady Rosamund. Those are my terms. Will you take them?”
But I haven’t. Rosamund fought her paralysis, struggled to protest. I’m sure I haven’t. I’d remember—he’d want me to remember, I’m sure of that much….
Josselin shook his head. “My oath is already given, your Highness. If I swore to you as well, that would render both oaths meaningless. How could you ever trust my word to you, when I had broken it to my queen?”
“I admire a man of honor, Sir Josselin. However, that does present you with a difficult dilemma—you cannot serve your queen’s will unless you break your oath, but if you do not break your oath, you will fail your queen.”
Josselin’s entire body tensed. His fingers did not quite reach for the sword at his side, but his jaw tightened and his eyes went cold. He took several deep breaths, and then the sudden tension seemed to melt away and his hands relaxed.
“I cannot swear to you, your Highness,” he said, “but I could swear to milady Rosamund.”
“Could you? Would that not also break your oath to the queen?”
Josselin managed a slight smile, and his voice gained more of his usual confidence. “The task my queen laid on me was to serve and protect milady, who is also my kinswoman. To swear such an oath to milady only fulfills my queen’s own will. And to serve her who serves your Highness—does that not fulfill your requirement as well?”
Alexander was silent for a long moment, considering—or perhaps simply taking his time responding because he could make them wait. Finally, he smiled as well. “You are very clever—yes. I think that will fulfill my condition admirably.”
He released Rosamund’s hand and stepped back. “Your boon is granted, Sir Josselin. Make your oath.”
“Thank you, your Highness.” Josselin bowed, giving Alexander all due respect, and acknowledging his boon as well.
Then he straightened back to his full height, and turned to Rosamund. The warmth in his smile penetrated to her bones, and it occurred to her that he really was going to stay, that she wasn’t alone anymore. “My dearest lady.” He came to her, went down to one knee at her feet. She held out her hands, and he took them, kissed her fingers, then looked up at her. “Will you accept my oath?”
“I will accept it, milord.” The ritual was so familiar as to flow from her lips without thinking, which was a good thing, because she wasn’t thinking entirely clearly at the moment. She took his larger hands between her own. “Swear.”
“I, Josselin de Poitiers, childe of Isouda de Blaise, Knight of the Rose, do swear on my honor to serve you in all matters in which you may command me, or the need arise; to defend you against all enemies and manner of harm, even to my last drop of blood or my Final Death; and to honor you above all others, save the queen we both still serve. I am your faithful knight, your loving brother and your most devoted servant. This I swear, by my honor and my name, and by the blood you give me this night; in all things, I am yours.”
—I would do anything you asked of me.
“Sir Josselin de Poitiers, you honor me with your service, which I shall honor in
return, and accept with my deepest gratitude. Take then my blood, and be sworn to my service.”
Her sleeves were close-fitting and too long, extending down to her knuckles, and the lacing awkward to undo one-handed. Gently he took her right hand, and found the right tie to pull. Then he unlaced her sleeve enough to expose a delicate white wrist. “You should probably sit down,” he whispered to her.
“Peter, a chair,” she called, spotting her seneschal among the small knot of servants. The mortal hastily obeyed, bringing it to her so that she might be seated exactly where she was.
She was aware of the witness of many eyes—those of her own servants: her seneschal Peter, her attendant Margery, and her knight Sir Thomas Wyndham; of Josselin’s squire Fabien; of Alexander’s servant Gaston, of Sir Marques and his man Jean. And only a short distance off, Alexander himself, his dark eyes burning in his pale, youthful face, but otherwise totally still.
Josselin took her hand and turned it over, gently kissing her palm, and then her wrist. She rested her other hand on his shoulder. She felt his lips open against her skin, the pressure of his fangs. There was an instant of pain as he pierced her flesh, driving fangs in between tendon and bone. The thrill followed, moving swiftly through her veins up from her wrist to her heart, and then through her entire body.
Rosamund gave a little gasp—this was nothing like when she gave her blood to Peter or Thomas. They did not pierce her very nerves with pleasure bordering on exquisite pain, nor suckle on her flesh with such desire or sheer intensity. Josselin’s eyes were closed, his expression rapt devotion. The slightest change in the pressure of his lips on her skin, the movement of blood in her veins called to answer his demands, sent a new tremor of delight through her.
She was still aware of her surroundings, rather like watching through a peephole into a scene she could only witness but not affect. The servants stared, some with their mouths hanging open; several had begun to sweat. Peter had wrapped his arms around himself, and was weeping silently. Margery rubbed tears from her eyes as well. In the doorway, Sir Olivier and his mortal vassal Sir Renaud stood transfixed, a puddle forming under their feet from water dripping off their cloaks. Gaston’s eyes, however, were on his master. Alexander was motionless, like a statue of some ancient Greek hero, his dark eyes fixed on them, not even blinking. But they all seemed so removed from her—only Josselin was real, only he could touch her now.
Josselin withdrew, and she felt an immediate sense of loss. His tongue sealed up the wounds in her flesh, caught the last few precious drops of her blood. He kissed her wrist again, reverently, and then held her hand against his cheek. “I—I am yours, petite fleur,” he whispered.
Rosamund bent down and rested her forehead against his. “I know.” Then she straightened and rose to her feet. She laid her hand on Josselin’s bowed head. “I accept your oath, Sir Josselin, and welcome you to my service. Rise now, and join the others of my household until I call for you.”
Josselin rose to his feet as well. He gazed down at her, and she could see the blood tears brimming in his eyes. “Milady,” he murmured, bowed, and retreated.
“Graciously done, milady,” Alexander found his voice at last, and returned to claim his place at her side. “I’m sure Sir Josselin will serve you—and us—very well indeed. If nothing else, our entourage is suitably enriched by the presence of another knight in our company.”
Rosamund somehow managed to smile at him. If nothing else? It was a sacrament, what he offered me! She wasn’t even sure if it was her own anger or Josselin’s that she felt, somehow echoing through blood she had shared. “I have the utmost faith in my kinsman,” she said.
But Alexander was already beckoning the new arrivals in. “Sir Olivier, Sir Renaud: Approach us. Do you bring us news from Lord Hardestadt at last? Has he responded to our request for an audience?”
Alexander’s childe and liegeman bowed. “Your Highness. I do bring word, my prince. I bring a letter, from the hand of Lord Hardestadt himself.”
“Come, come, milord—let us have the letter!” Alexander all but snatched it out of Olivier’s hands. “Your negotiations went well, then!”
“I believe so, your Highness,” Olivier replied. “I did not speak to Lord Hardestadt himself, of course—”
“You didn’t? How then did you get this letter?” Alexander demanded. He ripped the seal open, unfolded the parchment and began to read.
“He would not receive me, but I did speak with his chamberlain, who spoke for his lordship. We had many good dialogues, your Highness, and he then bespoke his lord on our behalf, and then would come back again to talk with me. And in the end, the lord put the letter in my hands for you—”
Rosamund heard Olivier’s voice falter, saw Alexander’s expression darken, and fought her own instinct to flee the growing storm.
“What mockery is this?” Alexander hissed. “You said your negotiations went well! Why then does he refuse to see me? A perilous precedent, he says? Does he think me a common refugee, that he can send me off like a beggar at the door?”
Olivier dropped to his knees at the intensity of Alexander’s displeasure. “Your Highness, I—I did not know, please, I beg you—forgive me!” he cried. “He told me it was settled, he told me it was all arranged!”
“Who told you? His chamberlain? His chamberlain?”
“He said—”
“Out! All of you, out!” Alexander snarled. “No, not you, Olivier. We aren’t done with you yet. The rest of you. Out!”
“But, your Highness,” Marques protested. “If this chamberlain—”
Alexander bared his fangs and lashed out with one hand. His blow sent Marques careening backwards into the long table. Both Marques and the table slid another ten feet from the force of the prince’s fury.
Mortal servants and Cainites alike fled before the prince’s wrath.
It was not unlike being drunk—or what Josselin could remember of drunkenness, not having tasted wine save diluted in mortal veins in over a century now. To look on her now brought it all back again. Rosamund was Aphrodite herself, a goddess with hair the color of flame, copper and ruddy gold in the firelight, her features exquisitely proportioned, with just a hint of the girlhood not entirely left behind. He could gaze at her all night; the flawless perfection of her milk-white skin, the delicacy of her hands, the graceful way the skirt of her kirtle swayed when she walked, even pacing nervously as she was now. She was an angel walking on earth among common men.
That’s her blood talking, whispering to you. But you knew what you were doing, didn’t you? Didn’t you?
Like drunkenness it was temporary, with but one taste, but heady in its rush nonetheless. It was intoxication, and he savored it while he could.
“I am going to him,” she said finally.
“No!” Desperation seized him, and he was on his knee before her in an eyeblink. “Don’t risk yourself. I will go, and see what his mood is first.”
“You will not know his mood until it is too late. I know him better. Josselin—” She knelt as well, to be on eye level with him. “Whatever possessed you earlier—I am grateful, far more than you could ever guess, for what you did for me this evening. I am honored that you would trust me so much, and I pray to the Holy Mother that you don’t come to regret it. But you’re not thinking clearly, I can see it in your eyes. I need you clearheaded, milord. I need your wits, not your worship.”
Emotions churned in him, despair warring with exhilaration, fear for her safety colliding with the joy of her presence. He somehow managed to fight them all down. She needed him; she had said it. He had only tasted of her this once—his will and heart were still his own, if he would but claim them.
“I am recovered, milady. Mostly,” he added, and saw her smile. “I regret nothing, ma petite fleur. I have always been in your service.”
“I know.” She let him help her back up to her feet.
“Milady,” Margery said, curtsying apologetically. “Gaston is here. His Highne
ss is asking for you.”
“Tell him I will be there straight away.”
“I will escort you, then.” Something inside him wept to let her go from his sight, but he ignored the pang as best he could, and held out his hand to her.
She laid her hand in his, and he led her down to the hall. It was darker now; the fire on the hearth had burned down to coals, and someone had blown the candles out.
Someone was weeping softly, off to one side of the hall, in the shadows. Rosamund started in that direction instinctively; Josselin closed his fingers on hers and stopped her, then moved towards the sound himself. Rosamund followed.
Sir Renaud was huddled against the wall, rocking back and forth as he wept. In his hands he held Olivier’s tunic, gritty with ash. The hose extended out of the tunic and into muddy shoes, but there was not enough left within them to give them shape. The mortal knight looked up at them; his face was smeared with ashes as well as tears. “It was promising news, he said it was,” he said, wretchedly. “It was—”
“Holy Mary—” Rosamund whispered, and crossed herself. “Oh, no… Olivier… Olivier—!”
Josselin echoed the gesture, then took her shoulders in his hands, turning her gently away from the sight of Olivier’s ashes. There were blood tears swimming in her eyes. “Poor Olivier…” she repeated, almost numbly.
“Don’t go,” he whispered, urgently. “Please, petite—”
His voice seemed to break her out of her grief for the moment. She shook her head, held a finger to her lips in warning. Not when he can hear, she mouthed silently. And then, I must. Take me to him.
The conflict in his soul nearly had him trembling. He released her, offered his hand again, and she took it. It took all the discipline in him to obey her, rather than sweep her up in his arms and flee—though to what sanctuary, he had no idea. Alexander was not one whose wrath could be outrun.
Her courage shamed him, and he took what comfort he could from her resolve.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 3
