“Your Highness, we are grateful for your kind welcome to these your domains,” Alexander began. “Unfortunate circumstances have driven us from our own city of Paris, and forced us to wander across Europe—”
Rosamund let her gaze wander to Lord Jürgen’s advisors, who were unfamiliar to her. There was a thin-lipped priest in a plain cassock, who studied them down the length of his aquiline nose. On Jürgen’s other side stood a serious-looking young brother of the Black Cross, who wore mail under the order’s surcoat. And squatting near the priest’s feet, there was a round-cheeked fellow in the bright tatters and belled cap of a fool, who studied them all with detached amusement.
Alexander had finished his description of their circumstances, and begun introductions. “Sighard, who has guided us well to your lands; Sir Marques de Langres, of whom I have written to your Highness; Lady Rosamund of Islington and Sir Josselin de Poitiers, of the Clan of the Rose.”
Jürgen’s eyes lit on them all in turn, but when they reached Rosamund seemed to linger just a little longer. “Lady Rosamund is known to us,” he said. “It is a pleasure to welcome the Ambassador of the Rose back to Magdeburg.” Rosamund curtsied again in response.
Then Jürgen turned his attention back to the business at hand. “Indeed, milord, it grieved me to hear of the circumstances of my distant kinsmen.”
This was all arranged, as Rosamund knew. Neither Jürgen nor Alexander had any desire to be surprised in open court, so their entire public meeting had been scripted in advance—although Jürgen’s acknowledgement to her had not been in that script, and had doubtless surprised Alexander as much as Rosamund. He acts as though I’m here in an official capacity. Didn’t Alexander tell him?
And then: What if he didn’t? A tiny seedling of hope took root in her mind, and then her sire’s voice from some long-ago lesson in Cainite diplomacy.
—In court, a prince deals only with public faces, the formal masks we all wear, not the reality behind them. And in truth, Rosamund, a prince prefers the fiction of pretty masks—of respect, loyalty, alliance, even adoration. Even if he knows it to be a lie, it is still easier to deal with the mask you are wearing than the reality beneath, for if he ever acknowledges the deception, he must then act on it. Only be careful what mask you choose….
Now Marques stepped forward to bow low to Jürgen. “Your Highness. If I may be so bold—”
“Speak,” Jürgen said easily.
Marques went to one knee, the position of a supplicant. “On behalf of milord and for myself, your Highness, I most humbly request and petition your Highness for sanctuary and refuge within your domains, and offer your Highness my fealty and most faithful service.”
Rosamund’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on Josselin’s. He glanced down at her without moving his head and met her eyes. He couldn’t read her thoughts, but perhaps he could at least tell she thinking beyond Alexander’s script. His nod was almost imperceptible, the return pressure of his fingers on hers reassuring.
—I am yours, petite.
“Lord Alexander,” Jürgen continued. “Do you give your leave for this your vassal to swear fealty to another lord?”
“If it so pleases you, your Highness, of course,” Alexander returned. “Let it be done.”
“Very well, then,” Jürgen said. “Come then, and make your oath.”
Marques rose and then knelt again at Jürgen’s feet, and the prince took Marques’s hands between his, much as Rosamund had done for Josselin. “I call upon all here to witness this oath is freely given, and with Lord Alexander’s grace,” Jürgen said. “Let there be no doubt whom Sir Marques serves.”
Marques lacked Josselin’s poetic spontaneity. He made his oath in Latin, with the traditional text that bound him in obedience and in blood to Jürgen’s service, and Jürgen, in German-accented Latin, made the traditional response. The young monk of the Black Cross stepped close to unbutton Jürgen’s sleeve and fold it back, and then offered his lord a dagger, hilt first. Jürgen drew the blade across his own wrist in one swift motion and then offered the bleeding wound to Marques to drink.
Josselin moved his hand and flexed his fingers slightly, and Rosamund realized her grip on them had grown so tight it had to be painful. She gave him an apologetic look and forced her fingers to relax. Do I dare presume? Would Jürgen have named me Ambassador of the Rose if he knew my circumstances? Dare I take him at his word—what will Alexander say, will he dare challenge my status if Jürgen grants it?
Alexander stood as he had for Josselin’s oath, unmoving as a statue, watching his young vassal take oath to another lord. Even though the substitution was merely a diplomatic gesture to acknowledge Jürgen’s sovereignty without requiring Alexander to swear such an oath himself, Rosamund did not envy Marques the task of soothing Alexander’s offended pride later.
Dare I not seize whatever chance I can to be free of him while I still can muster the will to do so?
The wound healed, and Marques took the last drops of blood and released Jürgen’s hand. “Return to your companions now, Sir Marques, and hear my answer to your petition,” Jürgen said. Marques rose, bowed, and returned to Alexander’s side, though his gaze was now focused on the German prince—it was almost as if he was now unaware there was anyone else in the room.
Lord Jürgen’s voice took on a more formal tone. “To my vassal, Sir Marques de Langres, I grant leave to dwell in this my domain of Saxony, and do further grant to him this keep of Finsterbach, and its villages, lands, and all the living who dwell within, for his support and that of his guests.
“To my esteemed and noble cousin, Lord Alexander of Paris, I grant sanctuary within my realm, and commend him to the hospitality of my vassal Sir Marques de Langres, Lord of Finsterbach.”
Now.
At her slightest movement, Josselin picked up her cue, and escorted her forward, going smoothly down to one knee at her side, but still supporting her hand as she bent into a deep, formal curtsy of her own. “Your Highness. I bring you greetings from Queen Isouda de Blaise and the Courts of Love, and pray that you once again accept me as their official emissary to your Highness’s court.”
Jürgen turned towards her. “Milady.” He studied her for a moment. He knew she was departing from the arranged protocol, and was surely thinking of what to do about it. “I thank you for your greetings, Lady Rosamund,” he said at last. “It has been too long since I entertained an embassy from the Courts of Love. I am sure we will have much to discuss. Indeed, I look forward to it.”
“I thank his Highness.” She curtsied again. Josselin rose to bow with her, and then their formal audience—such as it was—was over.
“This keep is now yours, Lord Marques,” Jürgen said, briskly. He was already unfastening the clasp of the regal, but heavy, fur-lined mantle. A mortal squire wearing the black cross came to take it from his shoulders. “Those who feast below are here for your pleasure, and that of your guests. Your steward here is Herr Gerhard, and he will provide you with more particulars at your leisure. If the available vessels are insufficient, let him know and he will see to it you are adequately supplied with the viands of your choice.”
Marques was still caught up in awe from the effect of his oath and being elevated to a domain-holding Cainite lord—if still a minor one, given the size of the estate—and could barely manage the presence of mind to bow to his new liege lord, much less stop Jürgen from ending their audience then and there.
Alexander was not so distracted, however. “Your Highness,” he began smoothly. “At your convenience, there are matters we must discuss.”
Jürgen nodded. “Indeed there are, milord. But you have only just arrived, and it would hardly seem gracious of me to drag you into discussions before you had even dined, or been given the welcome due your rank—it is not often we host such an august visitor, and I would not have you think our hospitality less than that of Paris! We will address those matters at length, I promise you, but not tonight.”
Ale
xander offered a short bow. “Of course, milord,” he said smoothly. “I will look forward to it.”
“And so shall I,” Jürgen assured him, and then turned to face her and offered her his hand. “Lady Rosamund. Might I have the honor of your company?”
“It is I who am honored, milord,” she replied, giving a short curtsy of her own before Josselin handed her over to him.
Josselin stepped back, and allowed the prince of Magdeburg to take Rosamund towards the stairs, followed by Alexander, Marques and the others of his court. Only one brought up the tail end of the procession, and Josselin bowed almost from reflex and held out his hand to Sister Lucretia.
“Milady. Might I—”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” She started to pass him by.
“As milady wishes, of course, but surely one so fair—”
“Herr Ritter!” She turned towards him and the ice in her glare chilled his poetic ardor in an instant. “You forget, sir knight, I am in holy orders. I should hope that would be sufficient grounds for respect, even in France.”
She turned and was gone before Josselin could recover even enough either to be insulted or to muster an apology. All right, she wasn’t that beautiful—rather plain, really, especially in comparison with Rosamund. Still, he could count the number of times he’d encountered a nun out of her cloister in his entire existence on one hand, and this was the first time his charm had failed on any of them.
He hoped this wasn’t an omen of what his future in Jürgen’s domain would be like. Was it even possible to woo a lady properly in that harsh tongue of theirs? But then he remembered the singer. With that thought to cheer him, he followed the others downstairs.
“Walk with me, milady?” Jürgen asked her, and led her out of the hall, to a narrow passage and steep circular stair that wound up and up inside the walls until it opened up on the very top of the keep itself, a narrow walkway between peaked roof and the crenellated stone of its outer walls. The wind was chillier up here, lifting the strands of her hair out from her shoulders and nipping at her cheeks.
The view from up here was tremendous—would be even more so in daylight, though Rosamund could still see the faint sheen of moonlight on the river, the shadowy shapes of trees near the village, and of course, the activity around the bonfire in the courtyard below.
No one followed them. Lord Jürgen was one of the rare princes who did not feel obliged to surround himself with either sycophants or bodyguards at all times. If he wanted to speak to someone alone, he did exactly that.
“So, Lady Rosamund,” Jürgen said. “Once again, you bring me a gift from the Courts of Love.”
“I fear his presence in your domains is no gift of ours, milord.” She did not say Alexander’s name—she was never sure just how well he could hear, and she didn’t want to risk catching his attention. “It was Lord Hardestadt who sent us to your gates.”
“I wasn’t speaking of him.” He smiled at her. “You see, milady, I am not all cold armor and sharp-edged steel.”
“It was never I who said you were.” She had not forgotten that smile—or the force of personality behind it. Having the full light of his attention focused on her was nearly as hazardous as the dawn. “I see you bear our last gift to you. I trust it has served you well.”
“It has indeed—far better, I fear, than the Courts of Love have done. But I suppose this latest gift is more Geoffrey’s doing.”
“In part. But he has the support of the queens as well.”
“I heard that it was Geoffrey who spared his sire’s very existence.”
“Geoffrey holds his honor highly.”
“More highly than Queen Salianna, apparently—I suspect she was not pleased at his generosity.”
That was putting it mildly, as Rosamund recalled. “Most probably not.”
“And what did you do to offend her?”
“Milord?”
“I’ve all the pieces of this puzzle save one—why you are in his company. If the Courts of Love supported Geoffrey’s coup—why then hand over their fairest ambassador to an ousted prince?”
Rosamund could almost see the chain of logic constructing itself in his head: Was she still his connection to the courts in France, or only the plaything of a potential rival? Did she serve her sire or a vengeful exiled prince? Could she help him deal with his uncomfortable guest or was she merely a pawn and useless to him? What am I to him now?
“By Queen Salianna’s grace and my sire’s will I am in his company,” she said, searching out just the right words that would neither cause him to dismiss her, nor claim authority she could not maintain. “And so I am in Magdeburg by their will as well, however convoluted the path, and can assure you, milord, of their continued support even now.”
“And what of your support, Lady Rosamund? Your queens are far away, but their refugees are here, within my walls. Their support is of little use to me. Yours would be invaluable—if it is yours to give.”
“What is mine to give, Lord Jürgen, be assured that you have. I would be remiss, however, if I did not caution you that it may not be all that your Highness might wish. I confess to you, milord, that my arrival here was not anticipated—I have no letters of introduction, no proper documentation for my position. But wherever I am, I still serve milady, and the Courts of Love.”
“Not anticipated—I see.” He didn’t say any more, but Rosamund had the feeling that Jürgen understood exactly what her situation had been, and why her claim to be the Courts of Love’s emissary came without proper diplomatic credentials.
The prince was silent a moment, and rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “Do arrange for the documentation, milady,” he said at last. “I will put one of my own messengers at your disposal. I am very interested in maintaining good diplomatic relations with my allies in France.”
A messenger Alexander cannot intercept—I hope. “I thank you, your Highness, for your patience, and your generosity. I will have appropriate letters prepared as soon as possible.”
“Excellent. I hope, milady, that your current knightly companion serves you better than your previous fellow did.”
“Sir Josselin is my brother in blood,” she said firmly, “and sworn to me, not his lordship. He has my complete trust, which I assure you Lucien never did.”
“Good.” He extended his hand, and she laid hers on it. “I think I had best return you now, so neither your knightly guardian nor his lordship has cause to doubt my intentions.”
And those intentions are—? But Rosamund did not ask. It was enough for the current night that he accepted her claim to emissary status. The more serious hurdle was yet to come.
Rosamund. Come.
Alexander wasted no time brooding. Rosamund felt his summons as soon as Lord Jürgen and his escort had passed out of the gates. Some echo of it must have reached Josselin as well, for he caught her arm as she turned to go.
“I have to answer him, Josselin.”
“I know.” He hesitated. “I have something for you. I brought it from Chartres, actually, but I’d forgotten—until you spoke up in court.” He reached into the leather pouch at his belt and drew out a short length of green silk, embroidered with the white rose of a Toreador envoy.
“Oh…” Rosamund touched the silk, smiled at him. “You forgot this?”
“I’ve never been granted the right to bear it, petite. I brought it for you.” He went easily down to one knee and tucked the favor into her girdle. “There. Now go to him—as an Ambassador of the Rose, not an errant serving girl.”
—Only be careful what mask you choose.
Rosamund gave him her bravest smile, and smoothed the silk of the favor with one hand. Then she turned away and walked gracefully towards the stairs, her back straight and her head high.
If Alexander thought she had taken too long to respond to his summons, he gave no sign of it. He did, however, clearly notice the badge she wore from her belt. “So, you show your true colors now that there is another to
dance attendance on you. Will you never be satisfied, Lady Rosamund? What chance has any man of earning your regard, much less your fidelity, unless he be emperor of the world?”
Rosamund sank into a deep curtsy, but came up again with the most hurt look she could muster. “Milord? But I did it for you—it was all for you! Surely you could see that!”
“What I see is the hand of Salianna, pulling your strings even now, when I had hoped to free you from them once and for all. Rosamund, what madness is this? A piece of embroidered silk does not make an ambassador—what do you think Jürgen will do when he discovers the truth? How can you expect me to protect you when you insist on throwing yourself on the mercy of those who have long abandoned you?”
“How can you expect Lord Jürgen to support your endeavors unless he thinks you still have allies back in France?”
That came out a good bit more heated than she had intended—perhaps it was the old accusation of abandonment that did it. But there was nothing for it now but to keep going, present her whole argument, and hope Alexander could still see reason in it.
“Lord Jürgen will want me to write to my sire, and to Queen Salianna, of course. And they will not dare abandon me then. They will endorse me, because they must, because I am already here, and they have no other agent so well situated. And that is to your advantage too, milord—because I am their emissary, and I am in your company. As merely a follower in your train, your Highness, I am of little use to you—little more than a bauble to hang on your arm. But as a legitimate emissary of the Courts of Love, as your ally and advocate, then I can stand with you and carry the weight of my office, to speak for you here, and with my queen back in France.”
She allowed herself a pause for breath, and to check his response—he was in one of his totally motionless stances, watching her. She hoped that meant he was thinking as well.
“I do most humbly beg your pardon, your Highness, for the unexpected nature of my declaration in court—I must plead that it only at that exact moment became clear to me how I might best serve you and your cause, and could not let the opportunity slip by unanswered. If I have erred, milord, it was in love, and I can only beg your forgiveness for it.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 7
