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

by Janet Trautvetter

  By our hand,

  —Hardestadt, Lord of Bavaria, Saxony, Thuringia, and Overlord of the Fiefs of the Black Cross

  “Magdeburg—eh.” Sighard shook his shaggy head. His face was shaggy too, with a thick black beard that covered both cheeks up nearly to his eyes, which were yellow like a wolf’s. He spoke broken French with a thick accent, occasionally interspersing it with some other tongue, guttural and fierce.

  Alexander seemed to understand him, however. “Yes, Magdeburg,” he said.

  “You said Bavaria, not Magdeburg,” Sighard growled. “I bring you Bavaria. Bavaria this way, nearer. Magdeburg is Saxony, that way, very far. North, past many mountains.” He extended one long hairy arm to make his point.

  “Do you know the way?” Alexander asked him coolly. “Or shall I find another guide?”

  Sighard snarled. He was missing several teeth, but those that remained were all pointed and vicious, and his fangs seemed never to recede. “I know where is Magdeburg. Is dangerous road from this place.”

  “I want the fastest road. The most direct. I want to be there as soon as possible.”

  “That is most dangerous road, most direct. Manwolves in Steigerwald. Must avoid their villages.”

  Rosamund was grateful she did not have to bargain with the creature; Sighard had a way of looking at her that made her uncomfortable. But at least the discussion kept Alexander’s attention focused on his recalcitrant guide, and away from her or Josselin, whose outrage had cooled but undoubtedly not died. Josselin’s temper was slow to ignite, but once kindled could burn for a long, long time—especially over an injury done to someone he considered under his protection. Even if it wasn’t an injury, exactly.

  They were going to Magdeburg. Now that she had seen Hardestadt’s letter, part of her wondered just how much say Lord Jürgen had been given in the matter of their invitation. Hardestadt had seemingly left him no choice, yet the Lord Jürgen she remembered was not one to bow easily to the will of another, not even his own sire.

  Although Alexander, as she had cause to know, could be very persuasive.

  The Cainites sat at the long table, with Alexander at the head, except for Sighard, who had hopped up, squatting on the table itself to carve crude maps into the scarred wood with one curved talon, the better to make his point. Marques, sitting in Olivier’s old place by Alexander’s right hand, snorted at Sighard’s warnings. “You said the same thing about the Schwarzwald, if I recall,” he said. “And yet we passed through it safely, and the only hairy beast we saw the whole time was you.”

  “Which is tribute to very fine guide,” Sighard shot back, “so you should give more respect. You not know man-wolves. They eat little Cainites like you and spit out bones.” He spat in Marques’s general direction; the younger Cainite flinched, and the guide laughed. “And will my very fine guide continue to guide us to Magdeburg?” Alexander asked, ignoring Marques and focusing on Sighard.

  “Is new contract, to Magdeburg,” the Gangrel said. “Expensive.”

  “How expensive?”

  Sighard didn’t hesitate. “I want very good horse of dead knight, also his sword and fine cloak.”

  Olivier’s horse… his sword… Rosamund felt her spine stiffen. He talks as though what he asks for is little more than the spoils of war to be divided!

  “What?” Marques rose to his feet. “Do you have any idea what that animal is worth? Milord, we can find a better guide—or at the very least a less insolent one—”

  “Sit down and be quiet!” Alexander snapped suddenly, turning to fix his coldest stare on Marques. The younger Cainite sat as if his legs had been chopped out from under him. “Or I will grant Sighard the pleasure of tearing out your tongue at the root.”

  He turned back to the guide, and just stared at him for a moment. Sighard didn’t quite cower, but he did crouch a bit lower under Alexander’s gaze.

  But Alexander seemed to be thinking about it. “A knight’s very good horse, his sword, his cloak—those are costly things, and in more ways than one. But why stop there? What about his mail and helmet? His clothing? What about his vassal, to serve you as he did his late master? If you’re going to be a knight, you should have a retainer.”

  Sighard considered this. “Great prince can make me a knight?”

  “Knights are made in many ways.” Alexander rose from his seat so he could walk around the table as he spoke. “Some are born into families of rank and are trained from boyhood. Some not so advantaged are awarded the title on the battlefield after they have performed great deeds. But others earn the position through the fulfillment of a quest—a long and difficult quest, of course. Is that not right, Lady Rosamund?”

  What is he up to? “That is correct, milord,” Rosamund responded, a bit warily. “But a knight’s quest is somewhat more—”

  “Indeed it is, milady,” Alexander agreed. “Indeed it is. But is not guiding a lady and her companions on a perilous journey a quest worthy of a knight?”

  Josselin shifted restlessly in his seat; Rosamund laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  Alexander turned towards the knight. “Sir Josselin—what do you think? You are something of an authority on this topic, I would imagine.”

  Josselin glanced up at Alexander, then fixed his gaze on Sighard, who was watching the exchange with keen, almost expectant interest. “If such a deed were enough in itself,” Josselin replied coolly, “then he would be already worthy—but clearly it is not, if he must now bargain to gain it. Even the best horse and sword do not make a knight.”

  Sighard snarled at Josselin, inferring an insult; the Knight of the Rose didn’t even flinch.

  Alexander leaned against the table, and folded his arms across his chest. “That is quite true, milord,” he agreed. “A knight must have courage, skill at arms, courtesy, generosity, honor, loyalty and nobility of spirit—all qualities which Sighard may have opportunity to demonstrate on our journey. Or perhaps be taught such virtues as he may yet lack, so that on our arrival he may prove himself worthy… even to you.”

  “Skill at arms may be taught, and even courtesy,” Josselin replied, tightly. Rosamund could see the tension in the way he held himself, his hands gripping the carved arms of his chair. “But honor cannot be taught; it comes from within, from the heart. And once it is compromised, for whatever reason—then it is forever stained, and not even the greatest prince can wash the stain away.”

  Josselin, no—Rosamund wished she dared touch him, capture his attention with her eyes, anything to distract his temper and still his tongue without it being obvious to Alexander what she was doing. He serves me out of love, I cannot compel him—not without making him weak when I need him to be strong.

  Alexander simply smiled. “So it is not unlike a woman’s virginity, is that it?” Behind him, Sighard chuckled. Josselin did not respond.

  “Milady Rosamund,” Alexander continued smoothly, “the Courts of Love have always held that the noble ladies of the court are the true judge of knightly virtues—tell me, do you believe our loyal Sighard has the makings of a knight?”

  —Your loyalty means so much to me. You’re all I have left now.

  Alexander’s seductive voice in her memory, the taste of his potent blood on her tongue, his caresses, the glorious ecstasy of his kiss. Josselin’s eyes following her, his uncompromising loyalty and unquestioning love. Where is my honor now? Forever stained, lost like my virginity?

  Rosamund forced herself to smile, and rise from her chair. She approached Alexander and Sighard, and held out her hand towards the Gangrel. I could face Guillaume; Sighard is nothing in comparison. He already wants what Alexander offers, so he will want to please me too.

  The Gangrel approached, still moving on all fours on top of the table, claws clicking on the wood. But as he drew near, he put one knee down and took her hand. His talons curled around her fingers, but did not prick her. He bent his head and kissed her knuckles furtively, almost shyly.

  “Sighard, you heard the vir
tues that his Highness listed. Is it your desire to become a knight, to hold yourself to those virtues above all others? Or would you rather remain as you are, and settle for a fine sword and a very good horse?”

  He raised his gaze to hers. The yellow eyes that had so unnerved her were wide with wonder, and the usual leer was missing from his expression. “Lady,” he rasped, his broken French barely intelligible. “If you say I be knight, then I be knight in truth. I take you safe to Magdeburg. Is my honor.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant it was an honor to guide them to Magdeburg, or that in doing so he would prove his honor, but it really didn’t matter. “Then guide us well, strive to hold yourself to those virtues, and seek instruction where you can. Prove yourself worthy of the accolade, and I am certain his Highness will grant it.”

  He nodded, bowed, and released her hand. Then he backed away, carefully easing himself off the table to sit on the bench opposite them.

  “Very well done, milady,” Alexander said.

  Rosamund smiled and felt a flush of pleasure at his praise. “I always strive to please you, your Highness,” she murmured, dropping into a brief curtsy before returning to her chair. But he caught her hand, and kept her by him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Josselin’s jaw tighten.

  “Tell me, milady,” Alexander asked, drawing her hand up to his lips to kiss it. “What Sir Josselin said, about honor being compromised—do you believe that as well?”

  Rosamund could not reclaim her hand, could not look away. “That—that is—is the knightly ideal, milord….”

  “That seems an impossibly high standard… the slightest falsehood or momentary weakness might cast such a stain as to tarnish one’s honor forever. But who is without sin, without weakness? How can anyone then meet that test? By such a standard, milady—is there any knight left who can still claim to have his honor?”

  “How can you speak about honor?” Josselin was on feet in an instant, his chair shoved back nearly six feet by the force of his fury. “How dare you presume to judge, milord, after all you have done?”

  Alexander’s entire attention suddenly refocused on the French knight. “So much,” he said softly, “for knightly courtesy. My question was rhetorical, merely philosophical musing—but yours seems more accusatory. What exactly, milord, do you think I have done? Do you claim right to judge me, in my own hall?”

  Josselin stood his ground, although not without some effort. Rosamund could see him shaking—though whether in reaction to Alexander’s cold glare or his own anger, she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak—but she tried to catch Josselin’s gaze nonetheless. Please, please—Josselin, no, this is not the time for stubborn pride!

  “I can do no more than pray God will judge you, milord,” Josselin said through gritted teeth. His fangs were down. “One time, it was your right. But not twice—she did not deserve such a penalty for her loyalty.”

  “Twice?” Alexander appeared surprised, even shocked. “You have misjudged my intentions, milord. Milady, can it be you did not tell him? Surely your loyal knight deserves an explanation?”

  “I—” Rosamund was caught off guard, and trapped by Josselin’s stricken stare. Tell him? How could I tell him when I knew this would be the result?

  “What?” Josselin demanded.

  Alexander merely smiled at her, and gestured her to continue. His support gave her strength; surely Josselin would understand. “It was but the one time, Josselin. We shared—he partook as well as I. I was afraid to tell you, I knew you’d do… something foolish.” You promised me, Josselin, please, please, don’t take this any further. Yes, he lied. It’s not worth martyring yourself!

  “Only one time—and he partook as well,” Josselin repeated. His voice had grown icy calm.

  “Yes,” Alexander said softly. He reached out, ran his fingers through Rosamund’s hair; startled at the unexpected contact, she flinched. “I confess, I simply could not resist—”

  Josselin’s sword slid free of the scabbard in one swift, smooth motion. “No,” he said flatly. “You don’t deserve her.”

  “Josselin, no!” Rosamund cried. Sighard snarled and leapt to his feet; even the attending ghouls stifled cries of either terror or outrage.

  Alexander didn’t even blink. “So much,” he said, “for knightly honor. Do you really mean to challenge me, milord?”

  “No,” Rosamund said quickly. “Milord, he doesn’t mean—”

  “Oh, I think he does,” Alexander said smoothly.

  “I meant what I said, your Highness,” Josselin said. He had not lowered his sword, though his voice was calm enough. “You don’t deserve her. She has followed you across half of Europe, endured rain and frost and long nights on the road, even been subjected to isolation from her own kin, and yet she has remained loyal. Any true knight would know that such a lady is to be honored, treasured—and above all, trusted and loved.”

  “You speak of love so glibly, Sir Josselin,” Alexander mused. “But I do love her. How could I not?”

  “Love springs from the heart, milord. Not the blood. Love is earned—not compelled.”

  “Ah, from the heart. Like honor, I suppose?” Alexander smiled. “Put aside your sword, Sir Josselin, and for your lady’s sake I will allow you to beg for my mercy.”

  “You demand what neither honor nor love will permit. No.”

  “Josselin—” Rosamund had been frozen in place—whether by Alexander’s will or her own fear, she wasn’t sure. Holy Mary, what can I do?

  Alexander looked more pleased than angered at Josselin’s answer. “Very well. You leave me no choice but to accept your challenge as it stands. Gaston. Bring me that fine sword Sighard was admiring earlier.”

  Under Gaston’s directions, mortal servants cleared the hall, moving the table off to the side. Alexander stood on one side, speaking softly to Sighard as he drew Olivier’s sword and gave it a few experimental swings.

  Fabien, his face white, unbuckled Josselin’s belt and helped his master out of his surcoat, then removed the empty scabbard from the belt before buckling it back on. The squire only managed a weak smile as Rosamund approached them, but Josselin took her hands and kissed her fingers as if there was nothing wrong at all.

  “Josselin, you don’t have to do this,” Rosamund pleaded with him. “Please—”

  “And what would you have me do?” he asked her.

  “You couldn’t beg his pardon—forget your pride for this once? Josselin, you promised.”

  He winced, just a little. “I know—and all I can do is implore your forgiveness, petite. I have no excuse, save love itself. But let me also ask you: If I do what he wants, and beg for his mercy, do you think that will satisfy him? Or will he next demand that I take the drink I refused him before—or that you take yet another?”

  “But I need you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “If milady commands it,” he said finally, “I will kneel at his feet and forget all pride and honor. My own, at least, I will gladly sacrifice for your sake.”

  It was tempting. He would do it—but it would weaken him forever in Alexander’s eyes, leave him vulnerable to even more humiliation. “No, I won’t command it,” she said at last. “You’re right, he won’t be satisfied. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Nor do I. But it seems my course is set.” He glanced across the hall at Alexander; noted a blue scarf tucked into the prince’s belt. “He carries your favor.”

  “He carries a bit of silk.”

  Josselin smiled and bent to kiss her hand.

  “Are you ready, Sir Josselin?” Alexander called.

  “Yes, milord. I am.” Josselin released Rosamund’s fingers, and took his sword from Fabien. Then he walked calmly out to the center of the hall, opposite Alexander.

  The two combatants bowed to each other, and then began. Josselin was taller, had a longer reach and practiced the sword far more frequently, but Alexander was very quick. They circled, the first few blows merel
y testing their opponent’s reflexes, each coming more quickly than the last, until mortal eyes could no longer follow the blur of the steel, or the undead flesh that wielded it.

  Rosamund didn’t dare even to blink lest she miss something. Her focus shifted with them, so that Fabien and Peter’s anxious breathing and restless movements beside her seemed to slow to a crawl.

  But then Alexander struck. First a horizontal slice that Josselin had to twist to avoid, and then a vicious backstroke that struck his left thigh. There was a sharp crack of shattering bone, and Josselin fell, landing hard on his back. He blocked Alexander’s next blow with his own blade, but the sheer power behind it drove his elbow against the stone floor with numbing force. Alexander’s sword came slicing across faster than even Rosamund could see. There was a splatter of blood, and Josselin’s sword went flying across the floor, his severed hand still gripping the hilt.

  Alexander dug the point of his sword under Josselin’s jaw. “Yield.”

  Josselin’s fangs were down, his face twisted into a grimace. His left hand was drawn into a white-knuckled fist, his broken leg lay at a painfully unnatural angle, hose and tunic stained with what blood had been caught at the point of impact. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to master himself, to acknowledge himself beaten and restrain the fury of the injured beast within. “I… yield,” he gasped at last. “My… lord.”

  “Lady Rosamund,” Alexander turned towards her. “What say you, milady? Shall I spare him? For you?”

  Her eyes swam with blood tears; she could taste her own blood where she’d bitten her lower lip clean through. “Yes, please, your Highness. Thank you, milord.”

  Alexander’s eyes bored into Josselin’s. “This time, for her sake, I will be merciful. Do not try my patience again.”