Rosamund pulled the favor with its white rose from her belt and held it out to him. “I wear this in your service, milord, and cherish it only as it allows me to serve you. If it offends you, I beg you to declare it, and I shall fling it into the fire for your sake.”
Alexander moved then, coming closer and plucking the favor out of her hand to study it more closely. “My sweet rose,” he murmured. “How I wish I had your faith—your ability to believe in them, even after all they have done. Do you really believe, milady, that the Courts of Love will grant you that legitimacy when they know you are in my company? Having cast you away, will they now dare confess their error and declare you their voice in Jürgen’s court?”
He handed the favor back to her and turned away. “Salianna has never admitted a mistake in all her nights, never taken back what she has said, no matter how foolish or ill-advised it might have been. What makes you think she will change for you?”
“Because it is in her best interest to keep all avenues open.” Rosamund held the favor in her hands so that she could see the rose, remember what it meant, and who had originally granted it to her. “Queen Salianna will know we are here in Magdeburg, but she cannot predict how Lord Jürgen will receive your suit, whether he will help you or not. She cannot know his mind, or yours—and therefore she cannot afford to ignore the possibility that he might support you—”
“He will support me,” Alexander said sharply. “He must. That is why Lord Hardestadt sent us here.”
“Exactly, milord. With his support, you can defeat Geoffrey, take back your throne. That is the possibility she must account for—and hold the way open to abandon Geoffrey and make her peace with you again. She will want an emissary here, who has both Lord Jürgen’s ear, and your own.”
“But are you so certain, sweet rose, that you are the emissary she will trust?”
She went to him, dared touch his shoulder, take his hand. “We will know soon enough, my prince,” she murmured. “Can you not trust me until then?”
Alexander turned back to her, dark eyes holding hers even as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “My own Queen of Love. I must do as my heart commands me—and how can my heart refuse you now?”
“No more than mine.” Rosamund felt herself falling into his eyes, swept up by his need, his adoration, even as he gathered her into his arms. He kissed her, and she could not resist him, nor did she want to, not with his blood already singing in her veins. His lips strayed to her cheek, her jaw, and then the hollow of her throat, and her chin lifted for him without her even willing it.
She hung suspended by expectation, caught between fear of him and a mad desire for the very thing she most feared. For an instant, she wanted him to take her; she hungered for his kiss even more than she hungered for the incredible potent fire of his blood. If he had offered himself to her, she would have taken him as well—the longing echoing in her blood was that strong.
But then he shuddered and raised his head, then drew her close against his shoulder. “No,” he whispered. “Not yet, my rose. He was right, your loyal chevalier—love must spring from the heart, not the blood. I do love you, so very much—and I will prove it to you. I will earn your love, Rosamund.”
Her free hand clutched the favor as tightly as she could; that piece of silk was her lifeline, the memory that the blood threatened to wash away. It was hard to muster words, to know what to say to such a heartfelt confession—when the wrong words could very well turn his adoration into fury. “I believe you,” she managed at last.
“Sleep with me today.”
“—Milord?”
“Just—just sleep with me. Share my bed when dawn comes, rest in my arms like mortal lovers do. Can you not trust me even that much?”
There was only one answer she could make.
He looked so innocent when he slept, more like the boy he must have been centuries ago, before his sire condemned him to be a boy for all eternity. Alexander’s head nestled against her shoulder, his arm draped over her, his hand curled gently over her breast. Like mortal lovers do, he had whispered, before the lethargy of the day had overcome him, and left her alone with her thoughts and his cold, dead body pressed close to her own.
—A lover can never have enough of the solaces of his beloved.
This isn’t love, she reminded herself. No matter how charming his smile, no matter how pleasurable his caresses, or enthralling his kiss. It was the blood and Alexander’s Cainite gifts, not love, that made her weak in the knees when he gazed at her. She knew the power of those gifts too well—she used them herself.
—That which a lover takes against the will of his beloved has no relish.
But when the will itself was suspect, tainted by Cainite blood or overwhelmed by a powerful Cainite’s own will—how could anyone ever know if what a lover felt was real? Could Cainites ever know love at all, or would it always be tainted with Caine’s own curse?
Was this what Josselin felt when he looked upon her? Was it only the blood that made him so fierce in her defense, so sensitive to her whims? Was it only the blood that made Peter and Margery so devoted to her?
Like mortal lovers do. Some mortals, at least, knew what love was. She could hear it in Margery’s voice when she and Peter lay together, entwined in each other’s arms, or when they made love in the pre-dawn hours, in the private quarters to which Peter’s status as her seneschal entitled him. Rosamund always felt guilty for listening in, vicariously sharing their carnal pleasures, but she could not resist. Their very passion drew her. They felt something, and it came from inside, not imposed on them by dark gifts. There were times she almost envied them that little bit of happiness—even as flawed as it was, between Peter’s guilt at breaking his monastic vows, and Margery’s hurt at his refusal to marry her—their love and mortal desires reminded her of the life she had once known, and had lost with Isouda’s Embrace.
Instead, she lay in a cold bed, trapped by the weight of Alexander’s unmoving corpse and growing obsession, and waited for whatever comfort the oblivion of the day might bring.
Chapter Six
Magdeburg, Saxony
The last weeks of October, 1224
The Priory of St. Paul in Magdeburg had served as Lord Jürgen’s haven since he had first made his court here on the edge of the Eastern Marches in 1212. Although known as a general above all, Jürgen took the condition of his soul quite seriously, as befitted one who drew his most loyal supporters from an order of military monks. Slumbering and holding court on hallowed ground—humble though the blessing here might be—was but one more sign of his piety. The presence of his confessor Father Erasmus at his side was another.
Tonight, it was Erasmus who read the letter Jürgen had received from his guest at Finsterbach: “—And I would be most grateful to have opportunity to discuss the matter of Paris with your Highness at greater length, for I most fervently believe that the rebellion there is a canker that may well spread beyond that one unhappy city and endanger the natural order of things among our kind across Europe. Such blatant disregard for the traditions of Caine and lack of respect for their elders cannot go unpunished, or the Furores will see it as a weakness and rise up against all elders in other lands, other domains, possibly even here in the Empire.”
The priest looked up from the letter. “Milord, might we interpret that last as a threat, should you not see fit to accede to his demands?”
“I suppose I should find it flattering to be considered an elder in his eyes,” Lord Jürgen said dryly. “I suspect milord sire would categorize me somewhat differently—and if it was Lord Hardestadt’s army that Alexander was trying to woo, I could find myself quickly categorized as Furore. No, that’s not a threat, not yet.”
“Not until you refuse him.” The Cainite priest gave the parchment a withering glare.
“If we refuse him,” Jürgen corrected. “However, we cannot refuse him until he actually asks. And he will not ask until he knows whether or not we will refuse him. W
hatever our answer, he must then be prepared to act on it—and so he will not ask until he knows what the answer will be, and is in fact prepared to act.”
“That is very true, milord, but how long do you think you can stall him? Alexander has never been known for his patience.”
“He will be forced to develop some, then,” Jürgen said, flatly. “He is in my lands now, and I will not be dictated to. Not by Lord Hardestadt, and not by him.”
“If you don’t write him back, he’ll have to write to someone else.” Wiftet didn’t often speak up in serious discussions; in fact, Jürgen wasn’t sure Wiftet even listened half the time. The Malkavian fool’s attention wandered far afield—except in times like this, when he cut right to the heart of the matter.
“That is, unfortunately, true.” Jürgen agreed. “And once lords like Balthasar and Baron Eckehard learn of his presence here, there will be no lack of letters, I suspect.”
“Can you not forbid it, milord?” Ulrich asked. “Cut him off, isolate him from any possible allies? Leave him as he is, bottled up in Finsterbach, with his followers.”
“Come now, Brother,” Father Erasmus snorted. “Do you honestly believe Baron Eckehard would obey such a stricture? Would you have Lord Alexander think his Highness is afraid of his own vassals?”
“His vassals should be obedient to his will,” Ulrich snapped back.
“Oh, do open your eyes, Ulrich—” Erasmus began, but fell silent when Jürgen raised his hand.
“Baron Eckehard is obedient to my will,” Jürgen said firmly. “However, his obedience relies a good deal on never being ordered to do something he doesn’t want to do. A prince walks on a precipice, Ulrich—for he rules only so long as his vassals do not become desperate enough in their anger to forget their feuds with each other long enough to rise against him. Therefore it is wise never to give a direct command unless you know it will be obeyed—or are willing to do whatever it takes to ensure it be obeyed. Therefore I will not command Baron Eckehard or any other of my vassals not to speak to our guests—it would be like asking the stallion to leave the mares alone.”
Wiftet chuckled; Ulrich shot him a dark look. “Be silent, fool.”
“In fact,” Jürgen continued, “I think it is time to introduce them to our court. It’s better to have them conspiring in front of our eyes rather than in secret—and we will see how long it will be before Lord Alexander asks the question he does not yet know the answer to.”
“As you will, of course, milord,” Erasmus bowed. “They will soon see Magdeburg is no place for simpering French courtiers.”
“She’s very pretty,” Wiftet murmured. “Like an angel.”
Ulrich laughed. “You are a fool indeed if you think she’ll look at the likes of you.”
“God looks after fools,” Wiftet replied. “And angels are his messengers.”
Jürgen nodded. “Then God looks after us all.”
Lord Jürgen held a formal court on All Souls’ Night, two weeks after receiving Alexander’s letter. “Lady Rosamund of Islington, Ambassador of the Rose from the Courts of Love in Anjou; Sir Josselin de Poitiers, Knight of the Rose.”
There were perhaps a half-dozen Cainites in the priory’s hall and perhaps twice as many mortals, mostly monks; all fell silent as the two Toreador entered.
Rosamund had learned to accept it, this awe she inspired wherever she went, but she wondered if she’d ever get used to it. She had that effect on people, sometimes whether she wanted to or not. Isouda had told her it was simply not in the blood of Clan Toreador to be ignored; the gift of Arikel, the clan’s legendary progenitor, drew the eye and caught at the heart even without her descendents thinking about it. All it took was to walk into a room where first impressions mattered and to be announced, and the rest was as natural as walking.
Josselin’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on hers as they paused and bowed to Lord Jürgen and the others assembled there. Several had the wit to bow back. Then Josselin led her up to Jürgen, where they bowed again.
Jürgen spoke in German—some kind of welcoming phrase, Rosamund guessed. Then Josselin led her to the side where Marques and Sighard already waited.
I must learn his speech, Rosamund told herself.
“Lord Alexander of Paris.” No further honorifics were necessary. Rosamund was certain everyone knew very well just who Alexander was and how he had come to be in Magdeburg. When Alexander stepped into the room, Rosamund was, at least for that moment, forgotten. Slim and elegant, dark and youthful, Alexander’s beauty was that of a young god. His white tunic and mantle with its broad trim of imperial purple recalled the majesty of Rome. The Cainite closest to the door bowed first, then another, and another, leaving only two wearing Jürgen’s black cross still standing. Rosamund felt her own knees buckling as Alexander crossed the hall and, beside her, Josselin dropped down to one knee, a little less gracefully than usual, as if he’d been fighting the impulse and had lost.
Jürgen still stood straight and tall, and even managed to look natural about it. As Alexander drew closer, the sheer power of his charisma eased, until it was possible to move, stand up again, even to look away.
Alexander made a slight bow, an acknowledgment of Jürgen’s rank but no more. If Jürgen took it as insult, his voice did not betray it. He greeted Alexander cordially in German, and Alexander responded, made another half-bow, and then retreated to the opposite side of the hall.
Jürgen spoke a few words to the hall, and then the formal audience was ended.
Josselin leaned close. “Now the fun begins,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Look to the left, you’ve made a conquest already.”
At the foot of the dais, the fool sat in his colorful patched tunic, clutching his belled cap in his hands, his eyes fixed on Rosamund. When he noticed her regard, his eyes widened, and his mouth made a little round O of surprise. Then he started to stand, tripped on his cap, fell forward into a surprisingly graceful somersault, and somehow ended up on his knees practically at her feet. For an instant she was looking down into wide blue eyes, and then he crossed himself quickly and bowed low, touching his forehead to the stone floor at her feet.
Josselin chuckled, and even Rosamund found a little laugh escaping. There was something so earnest about the fool’s performance.
“Wiftet.” Father Erasmus, the priest Rosamund had learned was never far from Jürgen’s side, nudged the fool with his foot and said something further in German, and then switched to French. “Your pardon, Lady Rosamund, he can be a bit odd. It’s his blood, I’m afraid.” The fool scuttled sideways on all fours, out of the reach of the priest’s foot, and then rose up to knees again and smiled up at Rosamund. “Not a saint, Father,” he said in French, “an angel. God told me you wouldn’t believe it, but I do.”
Rosamund laughed again. “I’m afraid I’m not an angel, master fool,” she said.
“Shhh!” Wiftet held his finger in front of his lips, and then whispered theatrically. “Well, if you want to keep it a secret, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Enough,” Father Erasmus said, irritably. “Go annoy someone else.”
Wiftet pouted, and said something in German that Rosamund suspected was either insulting or rude, and the priest sighed. “Go.”
The fool fled, scrambling on all fours and dodging other occupants of the hall as he went.
“He seemed harmless enough,” Josselin commented, watching the fool’s progress across the hall.
“Harmless, yes, but quite mad. Don’t expect to get anything but nonsense out of him.” The priest steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “I suspect this is not the sort of court you’re used to, milord, milady. We do things differently here in Magdeburg.”
“Every court is different to some degree, Father,” Rosamund replied easily. “I can already see that I must learn the language of this one, or I shall have far fewer opportunities for conversation.”
“Perhaps milady would like me to recommend an instructor in the
German language?”
“I would greatly appreciate it, Father. Preferably someone conversant in French, of course—my seneschal speaks something of the language, but a talented interpreter would be a welcome addition to the household.”
“I will be happy to make some inquires for you, milady.”
“Who is that?” Josselin asked, as if he was totally unaware of what the conversation had been about. “With Lord Jürgen, over there.”
Father Erasmus glanced in that direction. “The holy sister? That is Abbess Hedwig of Saint Mary the Magdalene in Quedlinburg.”
“No, no, not the abbess. The monk. I’ve not seen him before.”
Rosamund looked as well. The abbess was a short, stocky figure in black and white, her carmine lips the only spot of color on her pale fleshy face, and her expression sour enough to curdle milk. The Cainite monk who stood between the abbess and Lord Jürgen, however, was tall, slim and well-favored, with dark brown curls cropped short around his ears, and wearing the habit of the Black Cross, with a sword belted to his side.
“Ah. That would be Brother Christof, Lord Marshal of the Order of the Black Cross. A most diligent and devout Cainite in Lord Jürgen’s service, and in God’s.”
“And the lady there, who is she?” Rosamund asked, looking across the hall at a young woman richly dressed in exotically patterned silk, her mantle trimmed in fur, her dark hair bound in gold netting under a jeweled circlet.
Father Erasmus glanced in that direction. “Ah, that is the Hungarian ambassador, from the prince in Buda-Pest, who is a clansman of Lord Jürgen’s. The Lady Erzsébet Arpad. Would you like to be introduced?”
The Lady Erzsébet had her chin raised at a haughty angle Rosamund recognized all too well. Lovely. A Ventrue and a princess, no less. But the Arpad are Jürgen’s allies in his wars to the east. It would do no harm to cultivate her if I can.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 8
