“At least three times as fast, and considerably less diplomatic,” Jürgen said dryly. “But he’s Lady Rosamund’s man, not Alexander’s. Sir Josselin is not the one I’d worry about.”
“You’re not worried about Lady Rosamund?”
“On my list of worries, Rosamund is nowhere near the top,” Jürgen said dryly. “Alexander asked about troops tonight, finally. He seemed content with my answer—for now.”
“Good—for now. It’s the truth anyway. It’s not like we can just pull another army out of our purse.”
“It won’t hold him off forever, but at least the first exchange is complete. I doubt he’ll get even that much of an answer from Eckehard or any of the other barons just yet. They’ll all be cautious, watching to see what we do, and what he does in response. No matter how sweet his promises, they’ll not make commitments to him… at least, not yet.”
“Nor can you sign Geoffrey’s treaty. Not with his usurped sire at our gates.”
“Geoffrey’s treaty fortunately has other issues preventing its signing besides Lord Alexander. Negotiations will continue, of course. He won’t send a personal ambassador so long as Alexander is here, and therefore we are not required to send one to him. Nor will he use Lady Rosamund as his emissary, because in his eyes she is compromised. Therefore negotiations will likely take a very long time indeed—years at least.”
Rosamund again. Lucretia fought down her own rise of irritation and considered her response carefully. “Is she not compromised in your eyes, milord?”
“She’s an envoy of the Courts of Love, who have been and still are our allies. That she arrives with Lord Alexander is a bit irregular, I’ll admit, and curious—”
“Very irregular, considering it was the Courts of Love who aided in engineering Alexander’s overthrow. Her credentials, milord, are worth the parchment they’re inscribed upon right now—and until we see those and verify their authenticity—”
“Are you implying that Lady Rosamund would lie to us?” Jürgen was a little surprised at the irritation in his own voice. “She has been faithful enough in the past—the debacle over the sword was none of her doing.”
“That’s true, Jürgen, but it happened, and she was there. Just as Alexander’s overthrow happened, and now his arrival in Magdeburg happened—whether she’s responsible for it at all is, I grant you, highly unlikely, but again, here she is.”
“She was not responsible, Lucretia. And until her diplomatic credentials actually do arrive, we will take her at her word—it certainly does no harm.”
“True,” Lucretia agreed, and then added carefully, “Her presence may even distract Alexander’s attention away from far more dangerous things he could be concentrating on.”
“Dangerous for whom, is the question,” Jürgen replied, pensively.
Lucretia noted that Alexander wasn’t the only one being distracted. While this did not please her, it was hardly a surprise. Jürgen had found the Ambassador of the Rose particularly fascinating even a dozen years ago. He could not afford such a distraction now, not with Alexander here, and the forces of their enemy Vladimir Rustovitch on the move again in Hungary—Václav’s latest missive had warned of a possible new offensive that their current forces there might not be able to contain.
Well, that was why she stood at his right hand—no matter which habit or name she bore—to watch for the things he could not spare an eye for. Especially when his eyes were captivated by someone far more alluring than herself. “Yes, milord.”
Chapter Nine
Magdeburg, Saxony
Soon after the Feast of St. Cecilia, November, 1224
“It starts out with eight steps to the left, like this,” Rosamund said, and took Josselin’s offered hand to demonstrate. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Then count eight the other direction…. Then the lady goes around her escort, to the right—”
The little circle of mortals and Cainites—mostly mortals, as the brother-knights of the Black Cross did not attend court for frivolities like dance instruction—watched and attempted to follow instructions, even given in French. It was a relatively simple carole, and most seemed to be mastering it easily enough.
“No, to the left,” Josselin called, exercising his growing German vocabulary. “That’s your shield arm, not your sword arm, Herr Augustin.”
The mortal quickly corrected his step, grinning foolishly, pleased at any acknowledgement from a Cainite, even in correction.
Lady Erzsébet, having come into the hall during the last set of instructions, watched the dancers moving in a circle, but did not join in. “Is that what they’re dancing in Paris these nights?” she asked coolly, in French. “I think my grandmother learned that one from her grandmother.”
“It’s such a pity you were never able to master it, milady,” Wiftet interjected from his place in the circle. The fool’s eyes then went wide and he put his hand over his mouth. Most of the circle laughed.
“I’ll dance, master fool, if and when there’s something worth dancing to,” the Hungarian retorted, but she had lost that round; the laughter had defeated her.
Across the circle, Wiftet winked at Rosamund. She smiled back and then went on to instructing the next section of the dance.
Then the dogs began to howl—one at first, then another, and then it seemed like every dog in the city, of all sizes, took up the chorus. “What?” Rosamund looked up at Josselin, who looked as puzzled as she. The circle began to break up, as Cainites and mortals stopped to listen and exchange speculations.
“That’s not natural,” Renaud murmured, his head cocked slightly sideways to listen. “But what would—”
There was a commotion somewhere downstairs, and then the hollow clatter of hoofbeats on stone. “That’s coming from inside!” Josselin left her side immediately, followed by Fabien and Renaud, running for where they had laid down weapons.
A mounted knight burst into the room, knocking the wooden pantry screen aside and sending mortal servants running for cover. He rode into the middle of the room—Rosamund and those left of her dancing circle backed away as the fighting men drew weapons and stepped forward to form something of a protective line in front of the non-combatants.
The great black horse reared, pawing the air. Its eyes glowed red, and its teeth included a pair more at home on a wolf than a grazing beast. “Lord Jürgen!” the rider called, in sharply accented German. “Come forth! I am the herald of Vladimir Rustovitch, voivode of voivodes.”
“Speak, herald.” Jürgen entered the hall, strode to the dais. A half-dozen of his knights, including Brother Ulrich, followed him, with Sister Lucretia trailing behind them. “I am Lord Jürgen. What is your message?”
The dogs’ howling stopped, as suddenly and eerily as it had begun. Rosamund peered around from behind Josselin and Fabien. Wiftet somehow ended up beside her, also safely behind their guardians; he hunched down on the floor and covered his head with his arms, whimpering softly. Peter found his usual place at her shoulder as interpreter, advisor and loyal defender, ready to protect her with his own body if necessity demanded it.
“The voivode would finish this, Lord Jürgen,” the herald declared in a ringing voice. “Thus says Vladimir Rustovitch: ‘It is a poor general who sends his army to fight when he remains safe at home. His men lose heart, and then they lose much more. By midsummer there will be no Saxon left either breathing or undead in all my lands. Victory will at last be ours.’ The voivode discovered three of your men wandering lost in our forests. In hopes of convincing you of his sincerity, he bids me now return them to you.” The knight reached up and undid the clasp of his dark cloak, then with a sharp gesture, swung the mass of fabric free and sent it sailing upwards in a slow spiral, to land in the rushes near the base of the dais.
The lining of the cloak was not silk, or even fur. It was made of human skin, tanned and pieced together without seams through some foul devil’s art—and, to make its nature all the clearer, there were three face
s still preserved within it, their faces frozen forever in a rictus of agony. Nor was the blasphemous thing unmarked: Latin words were written on it, in a bold hand, and spelled out in blood.
It was Peter, literate in four languages, who read it aloud for the benefit of those standing near him, his voice hoarse with the sheer horror of it. “Thus shall all be served who dare trespass on my lands. Let all Saxons beware.”
Even those who could not read the message felt the impact; there were sharp hisses of anger and bared fangs all around the room. Rosamund crossed herself and ducked behind Josselin’s solid back, unable to bear the sight any longer. Instead she peeked around at Jürgen himself, to see what he would do.
The Saxon prince looked up from the desecrated remains of his men, trembling with fury, his eyes blazing with such fire that everyone in the room, whether living or undead, ally or not, felt the force of his rage like a great invisible wind. Mortal servants whimpered and fell to their knees in terror, and battle-hardened Cainites took an instinctive step or two backwards. Even the monstrous horse backed up, half-rearing and attempting to flee despite its foul rider’s will.
“Down, you craven cur,” the rider snarled, yanking on the reins, taking out his fear on his beastly mount. Bloody froth dripped from its jaws, and its eyes showed white, but it obeyed. “Do you have a message for milord Rustovitch?” the rider finally asked.
Jürgen’s initial wave of near-frenzy had abated, though his anger had not. “Yes, herald. I have a message,” he said, his voice carrying throughout the hall. “Tell Rustovitch that we fought him before out of duty, but now we come for justice and vengeance for his atrocities against not only our own people, but those wretched souls held captive under his tyrannical rule. We were armed before with our honor, courage, and well-honed steel; now we face him armed with the righteous wrath of God, and even though he raise up armies out of the very bowels of Hell itself, he shall not stand against us!”
The black horse reared again as the brothers of the Black Cross and all those gathered in the hall, down to the last mortal servant, raised their voices in a roar of support for the prince and fury at the Tzimisce’s messenger. Indeed, they began to take a few steps forward, towards the herald, those bearing weapons raising them with purpose.
“Wait.” Jürgen’s voice was soft, cold, but it carried, and it demanded obedience. “He is but the messenger, not Rustovitch himself. Go, herald. Tell your master my message. Tell him to prepare to face God’s own judgment, for most assuredly we will be sending him there very soon, and I am certain he has many sins on his soul to atone for ere that night comes.”
The herald glanced around the room, then offered Jürgen a stiff bow from his saddle. “I will tell him, milord,” he said, and wheeled his horse around. Cold, angry faces surrounded him, but at a signal from Jürgen, they backed away, leaving the exit clear. With a shout, the herald dug spurs into his steed’s sides, and galloped out of the hall.
At a soft word from Lucretia, two of the Cainite brothers bent to fold the cloak and its terrible lining so that the tormented visages were no longer visible, and carried it away. All eyes turned back to the prince then.
“We will not let this go unanswered,” Jürgen said at last. “We have been too long absent from where our stalwart kin and brothers in arms hold the line against the depredations of the Tzimisce barbarians. It is time this was indeed finished—and Rustovitch and his cruel, blasphemous jests will be finished as well. And we will end it this time, make no mistake of that.
“I call all those pledged to my service, all vassals, knights, and brothers in the Teutonic Order to join me in this effort, this one last crusade against the godless pagan terror clawing at our gates to the east. We will crush this serpent’s head beneath our heel and put all his devil-minions to such a flight that they will be knocking on the gates of hell, begging for refuge there from our wrath. This is our decree—let it be answered by all of good Christian faith and noble heart, bearing arms or not, to crush the adversary’s forces, for Christ and the Virgin, and the holy Church!”
The roar of approval from those gathered there left no doubt of their support for their prince and his crusade.
“I will fight with you, milord, for chastisement of this barbaric monster and for the glory of God!” Ulrich dropped on one knee at Jürgen’s feet, lifting his sword, hilt up like a cross. The rest of the brothers of the Black Cross, even Lucretia herself, followed his example, falling to their knees, pledging their swords and their loyalty.
“I will fight with you, milord! You have my sword!” Several other knights, both mortal and Cainite alike, came forward, drawing their swords and holding them up as well, calling out their own declarations of loyalty.
Rosamund grabbed Josselin’s hand and held it tightly—no, don’t go, Josselin, don’t leave me! His fingers curled gently around hers. Fortunately, he seemed to be in no hurry to join the furor of Jürgen’s new crusade.
“Milord Jürgen.” Alexander walked up the length of the hall with all the dignity of a king going to his coronation. Marques and István Arpad, along with several of their mortal retainers, followed in his wake. “Must one be a monk to take part in this little lessoning you seek to hand down to the fiends in the East?”
That started a murmuring among the brothers of the Black Cross which ceased when Jürgen raised his hand. “No, milord Alexander,” Jürgen informed him. “Only to swear by the Cross to see the matter through to the end, and accept my complete and total authority, under all situations that may arise—without question.”
“Then I, too, will fight with you, milord,” Alexander said smoothly, offering a slight bow. “And so will those in my service—four Cainites and their retinues now, ten by the time we arrive in Hungary.”
Jürgen’s eyes swept over Alexander’s current retinue. “You are, of course, welcome, Lord Alexander, to take up the cross and join us in our holy endeavors—but unless my eyes mistake me, I only see two Cainites with you.”
“A moment, milord—” Alexander smiled and turned towards the gathered spectators, and beckoned. “Sighard. Renaud. I believe I still hold your oaths, do I not?”
Sighard didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic about this as Jürgen’s own men had been, but he offered a stiff bow, a slightly deeper one to Jürgen, and then strode to take his place behind Alexander. Renaud looked even less happy, but he followed his master without a word.
Then Alexander’s dark eyes swept across the room to focus on Rosamund. “You owe me a boon, Sir Josselin.”
“Yes, milord,” Josselin agreed. “If milady permits, I will ride with you, milord.”
Alexander glanced at Rosamund. “Milady?”
There was little she could say other than the expected. The boon was a fact, and Alexander was within his rights to demand it of Josselin, and herself. Whether Josselin wanted to go, or whether she really wanted to send him, was irrelevant; he was a knight, trained for war, and his honor would not permit him to refuse the debt. “Of course, milord. Sir Josselin, you have my leave.” Rosamund released Josselin’s hand. He bowed to both Alexander and Jürgen, and then joined Sighard in Alexander’s train, Fabien following at his heels.
Jürgen nodded, approvingly. “Then your company is for now complete, milord, and we thank you for your resolve. We will gather all the brothers of the Order, and whatever other knights of noble mien would join our company, and travel swiftly south, ere the winter overtakes us. Rustovitch boasts he will have us defeated by midsummer—I do not intend to give him anywhere near that much grace, for he does not deserve to see even one more night more than it takes for us to destroy him and his foul minions, and cleanse the land of their filth.”
Rosamund chewed her lip nervously. Peter came up beside her and took her cold hand between his warm ones, comfortingly.
Wiftet came up on her other side. “I’ll protect you, milady,” he offered.
“Thank you, Wiftet,” she managed, and smiled at him.
Chapter Ten<
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The Burzenland, Eastern Hungary
During Lent, March, 1225
Josselin dictated conversationally, forgoing poetry as his sister had requested months ago. “We have finally arrived in Kronstadt, as big a town as one finds in the Burzenland, which is not saying very much. It is a fortress settlement, the largest of seven fortresses that the German knights have built to guard the pass against the Cumans, and the Tzimisce. But it is little more than a country town, save for the number of armed men, both mortal and Cainite, who dwell within its walls. We have fought two night skirmishes to get this far already, though neither was sufficient to do more than delay our progress. Brother Christof tells me we have not yet seen any real Tzimisce strength, so we should expect far worse to come.
“Fabien writes this for me, as usual, and I am grateful for his assistance—”
“Do you want me to write that, that I’m writing this?” Fabien asked, looking up from the parchment. “It sounds funny. She knows I’m writing it for you, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she knows, and yes, you should write that.” Josselin rolled over on the narrow cot, coming up against Fabien’s back. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he tried to look around Fabien’s arm at the writing board the squire balanced on his lap. As usual, the slightly smudged lines of text on the parchment failed to divulge any meaning. “I’m giving you credit, cher, in appreciation of your assistance.”
“You could just thank me then, and spare me writing all those extra words. This parchment isn’t that big.”
“Oh. You can leave it out, then,” Josselin agreed amiably, and then added, “But I am grateful, Fabien, and I thank you.”
Fabien grinned; a slight flush rose on the back of his neck, nearly as red as his hair. “You’re welcome. Hold a moment, the quill’s gone mushy again.” He reached for the penknife.
Josselin heard unfamiliar footsteps coming down the corridor, and rose from Fabien’s cot before he offended any monastic sense of proprieties.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 12
