Alexander waited for them in the solar, the quarters he had claimed for his own. “Thank you, milord, for bringing her,” he said, shortly. The displaced prince held out his hand; it pained Josselin to see how easily she moved to take it.
“Your diligence is understandable, Sir Josselin,” Alexander said, soothingly. Josselin didn’t even remember looking into those dark eyes, but they caught him fast. “But unnecessary. I will see to Lady Rosamund for the rest of this night. You may return to your chamber.”
Return to your chamber. Josselin bowed, and left them there, having no choice with Alexander’s voice echoing in his mind, until he reached where he had been told to go. Such was the power behind even those simple words that once he arrived, he found himself trapped there as surely as a prisoner in a cell.
“I didn’t mean to destroy him.” Alexander’s confession was in a soft, broken whisper. “I swear to you, milady, I did not.”
Rosamund wiped a tear away from her own eyes with the backs of her fingers. Olivier had been a good companion on their journey from Paris, gracious, witty and steadfast, patient with both his sire’s shifting humors and kind to her in her grief, fear and loneliness; he had done all he could to make her situation more bearable. “How did it happen?” she asked, daring to lay a hand on Alexander’s hunched shoulder.
He looked up at her. His cheeks were streaked with dark tears, his eyes rimmed in red. “I don’t even remember, that’s the terrible thing. It’s all a blur—everything happened so quickly. So quickly, and then it was too late.”
She sat beside him on the bench. Alexander so rarely showed his heart to her—he had told her once how hard it was for him to let himself laugh or weep with true abandon, as she did. Yet at this moment she could see the boy he must once have been, before the gift of unlife that had so embittered him. How old had he been? She had been taken young, but he had been even younger yet. And she knew something of what it was like to be brought so young from life into undeath.
“I—I know he was dear to you,” she said, softly. “He was ever loyal, even in—in times of trouble.”
“Like you. Sweet Rosamund, so kind, so loyal—what would I do without you?” He took her hand and held it, stroking her fingers with his thumb. “You’re all I have left now.”
Rosamund wondered if she even dared ask about the letter. His moods were unpredictable; there was no way to know how he might interpret her interest in it. “You will draw others to your banner, your Highness,” she murmured.
It was the wrong thing to say, of course, but if there was a right thing, she didn’t know it. Alexander stood up abruptly, dropping her hand almost as if it burned him, and took several strides away from her.
“No one is truly loyal anymore,” he muttered. “No one. You say the words, but in the end you’re all the same—you will leave me like all the rest, I know it. He’ll draw you away. That’s what he came here for, to lure you away from me.”
“No, your Highness—” she protested.
“He would steal you out from under my very nose, and you would go with him. Look how he manipulated you, how easily he made you into his co-conspirator. He thinks I didn’t notice, of course. But I knew what he was doing—seducing you into trusting him, and in my very presence, too!”
His mood began to frighten her, especially the direction his logic seemed to be taking him. What accusations had he thrown at Olivier?
“Your Highness.” It took all the nerve she had to approach him. Soothe him. He wants to be comforted, give him what he wants. “You mustn’t believe that, milord. I am your faithful servant, always.”
“My sweet little rose—” He smiled bravely at her, even as fresh tears streaked his cheeks, and held out his hands. She came forward and took them. “I do not blame you, milady. I have no right to lay claim on you—no reason to expect anything better.”
The loneliness in his voice, the haunting despair she saw in his eyes, tore at her heart. What a terrible burden he must bear—he grieves for Olivier as much as I. The Beast is at its cruelest when it robs us of those we love.
“Trust is such a fragile thing.” He raised one hand to caress her cheek. “Like loyalty. Like love itself. But unless loyalty is sure, there can be no trust. And without trust, how can there be love? It—it is so hard for me, Rosamund. It has been so very long since there was someone I could truly trust, who would trust me in return. You cannot know what it would mean to me, sweet little rose—”
His eyes drew her in. In their depths she saw pain that only she could ease, an aching longing that only she could fill. “Milord, you—you know I am your servant, in all things. What—whatever you would ask of me—”
—I am yours, petite fleur….
“Do you trust me, sweet rose?” Alexander’s voice, his eyes, held her ensnared, but she could not find it in herself even to want to struggle. His voice soothed her, caressed her soul as tenderly as his hand caressed her cheek. “Trust me. Trust me, even as he trusted you.”
His voice dropped lower still, to a whisper. “Will you swear, Rosamund?”
Chapter Three
Heidelberg, Rhenish Palatinate
The Fourth Sunday after Easter, May, 1224
Josselin awoke with a start and a snarl, fangs extended and a dagger in his hand poised to strike, before he recognized Fabien’s pale face as his intended target. He tossed the dagger aside and held out his hand instead, taking several unnecessary breaths to calm himself. “Fabien—no, lad, come here, I’m not angry at you! I did ask you to wake me. Come to me.”
Fabien came and sat on the bed, and Josselin took the trembling mortal into his arms. “There, that’s better, isn’t it? I am sorry, Fabien—I would never hurt you, you know that, don’t you?”
Fabien buried his face in his master’s shoulder, his arms encircling Josselin’s ribs. “I didn’t mean to—I tried to be gentle,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Josselin assured him. “You did the right thing, it’s only me being a beast first thing in the evening—where did I put that dagger?”
It was all the hint Fabien needed; he scrambled across the bed until he recovered it and then presented it hilt first to his lord. His eyes shone, and his lips parted expectantly. “Please. Oh, please. It’s been a month, milord. I’m sure it has.”
“Yes, I believe it has. Only be still for a moment, I must check on milady.”
Fabien obeyed. Josselin closed his eyes for a moment, listening as hard as he could. The beating of Fabien’s heart pounded like a great drum, his breathing became a roaring wind. He heard mice skittering in the rushes, heard the clatter of plates and bowls being washed in the kitchen below from the servants’ dinner. He heard faint voices—speaking German in the kitchen, a mixture of English and French in Rosamund’s own chamber from Peter and Margery. He could not make out their words, but they sounded calm enough. He did not hear Rosamund herself, but perhaps she had not yet risen. It was early, even for her.
She’s all right, then. If she were not, they would know, and I would hear it now. I would feel it, perhaps, in her blood.
Relieved, he brought himself back, letting the cacophony of sounds fade into the distance, until he heard nothing beyond the walls of the room, and his squire’s breathing was a whisper rather than a roar.
He opened his eyes again, and smiled at Fabien.
“Choose where,” Josselin told him, holding his arms open in invitation. As the mortal moved closer, he added, “Just remember that milady may walk through that door any moment, so perhaps a little discretion—”
Fabien’s hands were pleasantly warm against Josselin’s undead flesh, though the ghoul made his decision somewhat more quickly than usual—perhaps because he was simply eager, or perhaps because he didn’t wish to share the intimacy of this moment, even with his master’s lady. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Josselin’s collarbone. “There.”
“You are being discreet,” Josselin observed wryly. He brought the dagger up, laid the point
against his own flesh, and made a short, clean slice over the bone. Dark blood welled up in the wound. Fabien put his mouth to it and suckled greedily, pushing the knight back down into the pillows.
Josselin closed his eyes and enfolded his ghoul in his arms, though he kept his peripheral senses alert, just in case.
But Rosamund did not come.
Peter admitted him, albeit a bit reluctantly. “Good evening to you, milord,” he said, bowing respectfully. “Milady is at her bath.”
Josselin noted the curtain hung across the room, heard water being poured, smelled lavender and roses. “So I see. Thank you, Peter.”
The seneschal bowed again and retreated to his books. Josselin approached the curtain.
“Milady—” He paused, thinking how to frame the question. Why did he command me away like that? What did he want with you? Why didn’t you come to me earlier? “I was concerned for you. Are you well?”
She didn’t answer him for a long time. He couldn’t tell if it was because she could not, or for some other reason. “Rosamund?”
“I’m well, milord. Truly, I am. I shall be out in a few minutes, I pray you have patience.”
He could hear her standing, getting out of the tub. Several minutes passed; he waited as patiently as he could. Then Margery came out and took the curtain down, admitting him at last to his lady’s private sanctum.
Rosamund, now clad in a linen chemise, held out her hands to him. “You see, milord, I am quite whole,” she assured him, with a wan smile.
He came and took them, bending down to kiss her cheeks. Her maidservant Blanche began to dry her hair vigorously with a towel.
“And I thank our Savior’s own sweet mother that you are,” he said fervently. “He sent me away—I had no choice. I couldn’t—”
“I know. He can be a bit heavy-handed in his use of the blood sometimes. It’s so easy for him, sometimes he forgets there are other ways.”
“Heavy-handed? It was that, most certainly.” He could not entirely suppress the anger in his voice. “It made me fear what he meant for you, that he should dismiss me like that. If he would murder his own blood with so little cause—”
“What happened to Olivier was an accident!” she said, just as fervently. “He—he didn’t mean to. He was devastated with grief afterwards. I saw him weep, Josselin, and I’ve never seen that before.”
“An accident?” Josselin echoed. It was possible, of course; any Cainite could lose control, and any Cainite could kill if the Beast ruled him. But it didn’t ring true. Alexander had been Prince of Paris for centuries, and as far as Josselin knew, had never destroyed another Cainite accidentally. “How did this… accident happen?”
She looked away. “I don’t know. Margery, I’d like the green cotte tonight, please. And the surcoat with the roses.”
“What did he say, then?”
“We—we talked of many things,” she said. “He talked of many things. I listened. That was what he wanted, really. He likes having a sympathetic audience.”
Josselin frowned slightly. “Did he talk about the letter, then? What did Hardestadt answer him?”
“I didn’t see it. He didn’t leave it out and—under the circumstances—I didn’t ask. He’ll tell us when he’s ready to, I’m sure.”
Margery brought the green cotte, and for a moment, Rosamund’s face was hidden under a swath of forest-green wool.
“Then what did he want to talk about?”
She didn’t answer him for a moment, and he waited as the cotte was settled over her shoulders, and Blanche began lacing it up the back. She seemed absorbed in the buttons on her sleeve.
“Rosamund?”
“It was a private matter!” Rosamund snapped. “Must I tell you everything I do?”
The rebuke stung as if she’d slapped him. His protest died in his throat and his knees wobbled; he somehow managed to seat himself on one of her wardrobe chests rather than falling to his knees. An aching emptiness opened up somewhere under his heart from the sharpness of her displeasure. This is the blood doing this to you, he reminded himself, but knowing it didn’t help. “No, milady,” he said hoarsely. “Of course not. Forgive me.”
“And in any case, there’s nothing you can do.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in, past the dull ache in his own heart at that moment, and develop meaning—and then blossom into further shades of meaning beyond that. His own pain was forgotten in less than a mortal heartbeat, and he looked up at her, letting his vision shift until the details of the room faded into a hazy blur and her silhouette darkened and took on a halo of pale, slowly flickering colors. Muddy colors, grays and dull orange and reds—colors he normally never saw on her.
“Nothing I can do,” he echoed, “about what?”
An eddy of dulled orange rimmed her form as she turned towards him. “Nothing. It’s nothing, Josselin. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
Josselin glanced towards Margery. The mortal woman’s halo was far brighter, more distinct, pulsing with life, but showed colors similar to those of her mistress—flickering reds and orange fading to pinks. Is she angry at me or at Alexander?
“I am your servant, petite,” he assured her, and saw relief ripple through her halo in a wash of silver-edged blue. Then he added, deliberately, “But I will not forgive him so easily. Not for what he has done to you.”
Her colors flickered suddenly along the edges of her body—sputtering flames of muddy brown, dull blood red, tipped with orange. “He hasn’t done anything!”
Margery’s aura blazed with all the true colors of fire, angry reds, fearful oranges.
“He murdered Olivier,” Josselin reminded her. “I was afraid for you, petite—”
“I told you, that was an accident! He would never—” For a moment Rosamund’s aura flared nearly as bright as Margery’s, brilliant blood red. “You have no idea how hard this has been for him. How lonely he’s been—”
How lonely?
The colors in her halo were nothing compared to the crimson wave that flooded across his vision at that moment, the sudden fury that rose in Josselin’s own heart as the patterns of words and colors fell into place. His fangs came down; he was trembling with the effort it took not to go hunt down Alexander and tear him apart, or worse, take out his rage on closer—much more innocent—targets.
Why didn’t you tell me, petite?
“Milady—” A whispered warning from Peter, who realized much sooner than Rosamund did what was going on.
“Josselin?” Rosamund turned towards him, her colors rippling back to muddy orange and rust. “Josselin—look at me. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean it like that. I know you were worried, mon chevalier, and I didn’t mean to—to sound ungrateful.”
She slowly started walking towards him, hands outstretched protectively, as if that gesture might protect the mortals behind her. “Josselin—please, what’s wrong? Speak to me.”
He focused on her. The soft nimbus around her silhouette swirled with muddy grays and orange, but her eyes bathed him in soothing blues. He felt her gaze wash over him, cool the burning in his blood. Part of him raged still, seeing her effort to calm him as additional evidence, proof of Alexander’s violation of her; but the greater part of him welcomed the comfort and reassurance of her love, her approval, her concern. He savored it, drank it in as he had drunk her blood.
Her blood.
Her fingers were gentle and cool on his cheeks; he took her hands in his and kissed them, let the colors fade from his vision. The clarity of the room returned, the soft green folds of her skirt, her delicate fingers, rushes on the floor, all came back into focus. His anger faded too, but not entirely. This offense would not be so easily forgiven.
“Ma petite fleur,” he murmured at last, looking up at her. “It’s not you I’m angry at. This—this cannot go unanswered, I can’t—”
Rosamund put her fingers across his lips to silence him. “Yes, it can,” she said. He could hear defeat in
her voice, and it pained him. “It can, and you will allow it.”
“Rosamund, no,” he pleaded with her. “I am here to defend you, I swore to defend you, to you and to our queen!”
“You promised. Do you remember?”
Words failed him. He remembered, and he nodded.
“Then listen to me. Keep your promise, Sir Josselin. We are not at Roncesvalles yet, this is not the time for tragic heroism. You know losing a battle does not mean the war. But I can’t afford to lose my general, not now. I need you, Josselin. Please.”
Rosamund’s servants were clumped at the far side of the room, Blanche crying and Margery trying to soothe her, Peter’s wary gaze flicking between the two Cainites, and Fabien, who stood frozen in the door, tears streaming down his face.
Josselin took a long, deep breath, and then another. Righteous anger warred with obedience; he was trapped between conflicting oaths and the sweet agony of Rosamund’s blood in his veins.
Obedience won. He bowed his head. “I am your servant, milady.”
Chapter Four
Heidelberg, Rhenish Palatinate
Feast of St. John at the Lateran Gate, May, 1224
To Alexander, once of Paris,
We have heard of the misfortunes fate has recently wrought for you, our cousin of Paris, and assure you that none within our realms had any part in the events which your emissary did describe for us. When a great prince has fallen, all of Europe must bear witness. Know that you have our sympathies in your time of troubles, but our responsibilities here do not permit us to meet with you at this time.
It would be a perilous precedent—indeed, contrary to the very Traditions of Caine our Father—to directly intervene in so distant a matter. In the greater interests of our Blood, a balance among the Eldest of our Blood must be maintained, lest the alternative destroy the fortunes of all. We offer to you, our cousin, the hospitality of our noble and beloved childe, Lord Jürgen the Sword-Bearer, at his court in Magdeburg. There you will find a safe refuge and such advice and assistance as we can extend, in the person of Lord Jürgen, who is both tried and experienced in the ways of war. We have made this our will known to him as well as to you, and expect him to welcome you as a kinsman should upon your arrival.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 4
