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

by Janet Trautvetter

  He stepped back, turned and walked away. “Get him out of my sight.”

  Fabien was sleeping when Rosamund slipped into Josselin’s chamber early the following evening. She did not wake him. Josselin had fed from his squire immediately after the battle, and the ghoul needed to rest in order to recover his strength.

  Josselin’s recovery required something more than rest, and she had brought that as well—one of the girls from the kitchen, whom Peter had thoughtfully cleaned up a bit before presenting her to his mistress. The girl, believing herself wanted for an entirely different sort of intimacy, waited outside the door as Rosamund went in to check on her knight.

  “Do I look as bad as all that?” Josselin asked wryly on seeing her expression. He pushed himself up higher on the pillows with his good hand.

  She smiled. “Lady Genevieve would not approve of you in her chamber, I fear.” In truth, he looked better than she had feared he might, but his eyes seemed sunken in their sockets, his cheekbones more pronounced, and his long hair tangled and limp. She couldn’t see what his maimed arm looked like; it still lay under the sheet with which they had covered him.

  “Ah,” Josselin replied, “but she would order her ladies to prepare a bath for me, and bathe me with her own hands, and weep over my wounds, and beg me to tell her how I came to be so badly used.”

  “Well, I suspect you know her better than I.” Rosamund sat on the bed beside him. “And what would you tell her?”

  “Oh, that I was wounded defending milady’s honor—but of course, I fell in glorious and noble combat….” He grimaced. “That would be the part I’d have trouble explaining. In all her favorite stories, the noble knight never failed in his quest because he acted the fool, or broke a promise to his lady.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “No, petite. Let me finish my confession. I was a fool. It seems whatever I do only makes things worse for you, not better.”

  “You do make things better. Just by being here.”

  “I wanted to save you from him. I can’t.” It hurt him to admit that, she could see it in his eyes. Josselin was not accustomed to defeat. “I failed you, milady, and I broke my word to you. And for those sins against both love and duty, I must therefore humbly beg for your forgiveness. I will fall on my knees before you if you like, once my leg is whole again, and accept any penance you assign me with a grateful heart.”

  “Josselin—” Rosamund took his hand, held it tightly for a few minutes. “For breaking your promise, mon chevalier, I do forgive you—I cannot fault you for your devotion. In that you have never failed me. And I thank God, our Savior and the most Blessed Madonna that you did not pay the ultimate price for it, for then I should have been robbed of all hope of deliverance.”

  “I can’t promise you deliverance. I can’t even offer you hope.” He shook his head. “He was playing with me, Rosamund. I never had a chance. He was holding back, and he was still so fast! It was so easy for him—if he’d wanted to, he could have had my head before I’d even raised my sword.”

  “But he didn’t. You see? To have you still with me gives me hope.”

  “To owe my survival to his mercy—if you wish to call that a sign of hope, well—”

  “You have no idea how alone I’ve felt—even your gossip about Genevieve gives me hope! And going to Magdeburg brings me hope, as well. Especially if you’re there with me.”

  “It’s thoughts of Lord Jürgen that bring you hope,” Josselin remarked. “I recall you seemed rather impressed by him. I heard nothing else for months after you returned.”

  “Would that he had been that impressed with me.” Rosamund shook her head.

  It had been her first major duty once Queen Salianna granted her the title of Ambassador of the Rose, to attend the festivities surrounding Lord Jürgen’s opening of Magdeburg as his new court seat, and to present to him a finely crafted sword as a symbol of the Courts of Love’s esteem. When that blade had been revealed to be a cheap copy, the embarrassment had been devastating to Rosamund. That Jervais bani Tremere, erstwhile delegate from his order of blood-sorcerers, had ultimately been revealed as culpable, and that the original—and very fine—blade had been recovered and duly given to Lord Jürgen, had only partially salvaged the whole affair. Indeed Josselin’s own childe Lucien de Troyes had played no small part in the ill-conceived Tremere scheme, and that wound was harder still to bear. The assembled Queens of Love had called a blood hunt on Lucien, over Josselin’s protests. Rosamund had feared her career as an ambassador was over—until she had been sent to Paris last year.

  “At least once we’re in Magdeburg,” she said trying to avoid bringing up memories of Lucien, which she knew could still cut Josselin to the quick, “Alexander will be focused on getting Lord Jürgen’s support, making alliances for his return to Paris. We’ll be among other Cainites whose good opinion Alexander will need to court, and he’ll pay less attention to us.”

  “Will Lord Jürgen support him?”

  “I don’t know. And I won’t let you distract me with talk of either Lord Jürgen or politics, Sir Josselin—there is still the matter of your penance.”

  “Speak then, milady, what quest you would demand of me—for I am anxious to be restored to your favor.”

  “You may think it cruel of me to demand it. I would have you apologize to Alexander. Make peace with him, I implore you, at any price but blood.” She could almost see his spine stiffening as she spoke. “Josselin, listen to me. He knows you now, knows exactly how to wound you with words and little gestures, how to goad you until you cannot bear it any longer. He knows you love me, and he will use your love to destroy you—I beg you, by that same love, don’t let him do that.”

  He freed his hand of her grip, reached up to touch her cheek. “Don’t beg on my account, Rosamund,” he whispered. He sat upright, pulled her close.

  Rosamund hugged him, felt his arms—both of them—enclose her as well. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “I will do as you ask. Ahh… don’t move, petite, I—” He shuddered slightly, and then slowly, very deliberately released her. “I fear even you are tempting me—my belly is a bottomless pit at present.”

  “I know.” She could see that the stump of his right wrist now seemed more rounded, flesh and bone beginning to fill in for what was lost. “I’ve got someone waiting for you.”

  “Ah—good.”

  “She speaks only a little French. Peter said he didn’t think Alexander had ever touched her, though Marques might have. Be gentle.”

  “Of course.”

  Rosamund went to the door. “Gude? You can come in now. My brother wants to see you.”

  The girl entered, smoothing back her hair nervously. She reminded Josselin of a rabbit venturing out in search of clover, ever wary of the fox. But then she saw him, and her eyes widened a little more. A shy smile crossed her face, and she bobbed in an awkward curtsy.

  He held out his hand, and smiled at her. “Come, lapinette.”

  Chapter Five

  Magdeburg, Saxony, Holy Roman Empire

  Soon after the Feast of St. Dominic, August, 1224

  After such a long and uncertain journey, finally drawing near to Magdeburg almost felt like coming home. They were expected; messengers had been riding hard between their traveling company and Lord Jürgen, negotiating details of their sanctuary. A formal escort had met them the night before. Now, riding in the company of a half dozen knights bearing Jürgen’s black cross, Rosamund had to wonder if the escort was to honor the former prince of Paris, or to oversee his compliance with the terms of his welcome.

  Their escort did not bring them into the city itself, but turned off on a narrow dirt track that led through a stretch of dark, forbidding forest. It reminded Rosamund of the Schwarzwald. She noticed that Sighard constantly rode up and down the line of their caravan, very much on alert, and Josselin was careful to keep himself between her and the trees.

  But they emerged after a short while into fields and orchards again,
and approached a village nestled between the fields and a river. Set slightly apart from the village and overlooking the road there was a small walled keep, where torches burned at the gate, and the gate itself opened wide to welcome them.

  Inside, more men in Black Cross surcoats stood watch on the walls and around the courtyard. Rosamund recognized Jürgen’s own red-eagle banner hanging from the watchtower, and felt a small thrill of anticipation. Jürgen had come to greet his guests personally.

  Josselin, ever the soul of courtesy, helped her down from the horse. “Well, here we are at last,” he murmured. “And I see we are welcomed—” he nodded towards the keep’s entrance. A woman in the white habit, wimple and veil of holy orders was coming down the stairs. She was escorted by two more of the Black Cross guardsmen. Rosamund recognized her at once.

  “Lucretia,” she said, in as low a voice as she could. “Jürgen’s right hand.”

  Lucretia’s height alone made her stand out—she was easily as tall as a man, taller than even Veronique d’Orleans, and carried herself with almost imperious authority despite her humble nun’s garb. Humility, Rosamund recalled, was not a virtue Lucretia did well.

  Alexander had dismounted as well, and now stood waiting to receive Jürgen’s envoy. Sighard and Marques waited with him; now Josselin led Rosamund over to join them, fanning out in a small semi-circle behind the exiled prince. Behind them stood their retainers—one per Cainite, as arranged. Fabien and Peter followed and stepped into their places as well.

  Lucretia glanced over Alexander’s little entourage. If she recognized Rosamund she gave no sign of it. She curtsied formally to Alexander, who bowed—albeit not very deeply—in return.

  “Milord Alexander,” she said, in passable, if strongly accented, French. “On behalf of his Highness, Jürgen Sword-Bearer, Prince of Magdeburg, Lord of Saxony and Brandenburg, Protector of the Burzenland, allow me to welcome you and your companions to milord’s capital of Magdeburg and this his manor and keep of Finsterbach. I am Sister Lucretia, of the Order of the Black Cross.”

  Rosamund noted the title granted Alexander—only Jürgen was a prince in Magdeburg, and they’d had to negotiate that in advance. The Courts of Love were reputed for their complex formalities, but even they had a hard time competing with the traditions of Clan Ventrue, the bloodline of both Alexander and Jürgen. Elders of that clan took rank very seriously indeed.

  “Thank you for your welcome, Sister Lucretia,” Alexander replied. “We are grateful for his Highness’s hospitality to our company in our exile.”

  The agreed-upon formulae having been dispensed with, Lucretia’s gaze traveled over Alexander’s companions, and paused for a moment on a familiar face. Rosamund wasn’t sure if having Lucretia remember her was going to bode well for their welcome or not. But the Saxon nun said nothing, and returned her attention to Alexander himself.

  “You may bear arms, Lord Alexander,” she continued, “by Lord Jürgen’s grace, but your companions must disarm before coming into milord’s court. That is our custom here with strangers to our domains.”

  “Of course, milady,” Alexander agreed. He was, in fact, actually wearing a sword, which he rarely did. Rosamund herself carried nothing. Beside her, Josselin unbuckled the belt that bore both his sword and dagger, and handed it back to Fabien. On Alexander’s other side, Marques did the same, handing his sword belt over to Jean. Sighard grudgingly started removing weapons belts from various places on his person—containing the sword, three daggers, a Turkish saber and a small axe—and handed them to Renaud, who looped them comfortably over his shoulders.

  Once they were all disarmed, Lucretia nodded in approval. “Follow me, milord, and I will present you to Lord Jürgen. He will receive you in a private chamber—as you will see, we have other guests, who are not all privy to our business or our nature. Your discretion in this matter is appreciated.

  “Know also that the language of milord’s court is German. However, because you are foreigners, I will translate for you—unless you prefer to use your own translator?” She gave Sighard a meaningful look.

  “Your assistance in this matter would be most appreciated by my companions, Sister,” Alexander said smoothly.

  Rosamund took Josselin’s offered hand, and they fell in behind Alexander as he followed their guide up the stairs and into the keep. She did send one meaningful glance back at Peter, who did speak German. He nodded his understanding. He would listen and ensure not only that the translation was accurate, but pick up whatever else he could of the careless speech of others who might assume that they could speak freely in their own tongue if the foreign Cainites were using a translator.

  A mortal youth waited at the top of the stairs. Lucretia bent and murmured something into his ear. The boy bowed and scampered into the darkness of the keep to tell his master their guests had arrived.

  The keep had clearly been built with an eye toward defense—it was accessed only by a narrow, exposed stair up the outside wall to the heavy oak door on the second floor. The door, which was bound in iron, opened into a narrow passage off to the right that went by several angled slits in the inside wall. Josselin touched Rosamund’s shoulder lightly and pointed up: The ceiling above them had murder holes, where the defenders could pour burning pitch or shoot arrows at invaders attempting to the entrance below.

  The passageway ended after about twenty feet, and they came through another stout iron-bound oak door into the keep’s main hall, though they were still hidden from the rest of the room by a wooden screen. Here Lucretia signaled them to wait, probably until Lord Jürgen was ready to receive them.

  On the other side of the screen, Rosamund could hear the laughter and conversations of a number of mortals, the occasional clink of knives against plates, the begging whine of a dog or the legs of a bench scraped over stone. In the background, she heard a clear voice raised in song, and the soft rippling tones of a harp and a flute. She could pick out the smell of roast meat, of a fire burning on a hearth, and the sour odor of rushes left too long without changing.

  Rosamund wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to this meeting or dreading it—Jürgen must know by now she was a member of Alexander’s entourage, but his messages to them had included no mention or salutation to her personally, as she might have expected. Given the debacle over the theft and substitution of the precious gift she had been entrusted to bring to Lord Jürgen during her previous visit, with the culprit being a kinsman and member of her own entourage, perhaps he was not so pleased to see her after all. The gift—a beautifully crafted sword—had been recovered fairly quickly, and Lucien’s deceit unmasked, but it had still cast an embarrassing shadow over her first diplomatic effort abroad. Jürgen had not seemed to blame her for it, however, and for the rest of her visit he had been quite gracious.

  But in the twelve years since her visit, she had never heard from him personally again. Her several letters had gone unanswered, though she knew Isouda had exchanged occasional diplomatic correspondence with Magdeburg’s prince, and received replies.

  The page returned and whispered to Lucretia. She straightened up again and looked over their company. “Lord Jürgen will receive you now. You will please follow me,” she said, and stepped forward to lead them around the screen.

  They walked down the side of the hall, behind the tables. There were perhaps two dozen mortals in the hall, though few now sat at table, where mostly empty plates testified to a feast well received. Noble guests stood in discussion clumps, servants were clearing plates, but all bowed low as the Cainites and their escort passed through.

  Rosamund had to pull a little to keep Josselin moving. He was taking advantage of his height to scan over the assembly. She spotted the object of his search at the same moment he did—the singer, a cherub-faced young man with rumpled dark curls and a plain dun tunic, standing with the harpist at the far corner of the hall. Then their procession swept through the doors on the other side of the hall and began to climb up a spiral stair into the
keep’s upper chambers.

  Lucretia announced them in German, in a strong, ringing voice as they entered the chamber, and then repeated herself in French. “Your Highness, Lord Alexander of Paris and his companions beg leave to enter and approach, and so present themselves.”

  This room was but half the size of the hall below, and more sparsely inhabited. A dozen or so individuals, most of them mortals, waited here. But Rosamund’s gaze immediately went to the tall, regal Cainite standing apart from the others on the far side of the room, who now sized up their party in a glance, waiting until all had entered before making his response.

  Lord Jürgen, however, spoke in accented but passable French. “Lord Alexander has our leave to approach. Let him come and be welcomed.”

  They bowed, then walked forward. As they had in the courtyard below, they spread out behind Alexander, Sighard and Marques on one side, Josselin and Rosamund on the other, with their mortal servants trailing a few steps behind.

  There were other Cainites now taking their places with their lord, but Rosamund’s eyes were focused on Jürgen himself. Lord Jürgen was the kind of man who drew attention by just being there. Tall, lean and powerful, he reminded Rosamund of the lion she’d once seen in a bishop’s menagerie, including the tawny gold hair and beard, and the way he could appear relaxed and yet be fully alert to everything going on around him. There was no doubt he commanded both men and Cainites.

  Tonight he had not, as he sometimes did, taken on the image of the warrior monk. His tunic was a dark wine-red, and he wore a mantle of rich blue, bordered with a broad band of crimson and gold embroidery and lined with ermine. Rosamund recognized the sword that hung at his side—it was that very same beautifully crafted weapon that she had delivered to him from the Courts of Love, twelve years ago.

  Alexander stopped ten feet shy of where Jürgen stood, and bowed again. Lost in her reverie, Rosamund was brought back to the present by a warning squeeze on her hand from Josselin, and bowed with the rest.