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

by Janet Trautvetter

  There was an acrid taste of smoke in the air; the vestiges of the bonfires still smoldered on the hillside. Josselin did not look up at the charred remains of the impaling stakes—of their victims, nothing but ashes remained now. Rustovitch had not been prepared for an attack—this time. Next time, their numbers would be greater, whereas Jürgen and his knights could not afford to lose a single man. Still, there was a certain grim satisfaction in the price the Tzimisce had paid for their arrogance.

  Josselin spotted Marques’s red surcoat and urged his mount in his direction. “Have you seen Fabien?” he called.

  “Who?” Marques handed his bloody sword down to his squire to be wiped clean. “Jean, my mail will need to be sanded and cleaned by tomorrow night. And I’ll want a vessel at sundown. See if you can find a prettier one this time.”

  “Sir Fabien, who serves me.” Josselin struggled to rein in his temper. “Have you seen him?”

  Jean pointed out into the darkness. “Last I saw him, sir, it was by the river. There were trees. His horse went down—”

  Josselin wheeled his horse around and galloped towards the river.

  The ground was a morass of churned mud and blood, littered with discarded gear and strewn with corpses, several of them bearing the black cross. Sorel shied as one of the wretched Tzimisce-bred horrors, mortally wounded but yet breathing, made a pathetic swipe in their direction. Josselin dismounted to dispatch it, severing the beast’s head from its hunched shoulders.

  Josselin let his vision shift, seeking any sign of life yet flickering among the carnage at the ford. There—was that something? You bear my blood, Fabien, where are you?

  There. A living halo, however faint. Josselin refocused, made out the hulk of a horse on the ground, a black with one white foreleg. “Fabien!”

  Whitefoot had fallen, the gelding’s carcass pinning his rider, who lay twisted in the muck. Josselin dropped down to his knees, gently removing Fabien’s helm, then unlacing the chin flap of the mail coif beneath and easing it free as well, so that his fingers could seek the artery in the mortal’s throat. “Fabien. Fabien, mon cher, can you hear me?” There was a pulse—but it was weak, so very weak.

  Josselin drew his dagger, slashed his wrist and held the wound to the pale lips, opened the mortal’s mouth to let the blood trickle in. “Fabien. Please, please, Holy Mary—”

  Fabien’s eyelids flickered, and he swallowed, but he barely had strength to suckle. How much blood has he lost? Dare I even think of it—would Alexander allow it? Or would I be making the same mistake all over again?

  “—Josselin.” His voice was little more than a breath. “I—I knew you would come.”

  “Of course I did.” Josselin assured him. “I’ll have you free in a minute. Drink.”

  “I’m cold. I—I can’t feel my legs. Or—or anything.”

  “Just—just cold.”

  Fabien’s skin was nearly as cold as Josselin’s own. Gently Josselin probed under where Fabien lay, and his hand came away soaked with blood.

  There were some wounds not even the blood could cure—though its power could keep a mortal alive and lingering when he should have died hours before. Even if I dared Embrace him—would he then spend eternity crippled or whole?

  Fabien tried to lift his head, failed. “I—I beg your mercy, Josselin. Please.”

  Blood tears welled in Josselin’s eyes, streamed down his cheeks. “I should get you a priest.”

  “No. Just you. Pray—pray for me.”

  Josselin leaned down and kissed Fabien gently, felt the mortal respond, tasted his own blood on Fabien’s lips. “Every night, I swear it, as long as I endure.”

  Fabien smiled. He gave a little sigh as Josselin pierced his throat one last time; his heart went silent soon after.

  A Tzimisce envoy arrived at Kronstadt under a flag of truce a month to the night after the mass sung for the souls of Sighard, Fabien and the rest. It had not been a good month for the Saxon forces, with communication between Kronstadt and Bran now almost impossible and every night bringing word of another atrocity. The fiends were burning every village that had once been home to a German settler. The arrival of an envoy seemed hardly propitious to Jürgen.

  Still, the diplomat arrived with only a token mortal escort, whom he permitted to be disarmed without protest. He was no monster, but a slender well-spoken young man who wore robes in the Greek style rather than armor, and spoke German with the accent of Byzantium rather than the barbaric tongue of Rustovitch’s hordes.

  “You are outnumbered, milord. Your men are valorous, your strategies are well thought out, but you cannot afford to lose a single man—the voivode will chip away at your defenses, taking a man here, two men there, a Cainite here, and you will not be able to replace them. He has forces to spare, he is in his own country, and he can afford to be patient and play with you as a cat with a mouse.”

  “Do not tell me how to wage war, Greek,” Jürgen snarled. “Did he send you here to test my mettle, Tzimisce? How many pieces would you like to be returned to your master in?”

  The Tzimisce took a moment to reply, no doubt considering his words more carefully. “Lord Rustovitch,” he said finally, “threatened me with much the same thing, even though we have been allied in the past. He seemed to think I wished to rob him of his victory.

  “But in truth, milord, his situation is not as strong as it may appear. Those who believed his promises, who allied in his cause and gave him the men and monsters with which to wage his war, grow impatient, for the victory he promised seems out of his reach. Your numbers are fewer, yet you persevere, and it makes him look… less than entirely competent. Damek Ruthven, lord of Sarmizegetusa, grows impatient. The one the Tremere call Ioan the Butcher grows impatient. Noriz, who fought the legions of Rome, grows impatient. Even the most patient Radu of Bistritz grows impatient.”

  “Patience is a virtue, Greek. If it will mean Rustovitch’s destruction and my victory, I can be very patient indeed.”

  The Tzimisce shook his head. “Patience will not give you victory now. I am here to tell you that there can be no victory, for either side. Other forces beside your own are gathering in the night. Rustovitch knows this as well, and seeks to harry you out of these lands before either he, or you, must fight a war on two fronts.”

  Jürgen’s eyes narrowed. “What forces are you talking about? More Tzimisce?”

  “The Gangrel of this land are led by a powerful warrior queen named Morrow—”

  “I know what she is,” Jürgen growled.

  “She has many followers. If she calls them to war, she will be quite formidable—and they will give no quarter.”

  “What business is this of hers? Will she support Rustovitch, then?”

  “She supports no one but her own kin, milord. She cares nothing for Ventrue or Tzimisce, neither for the Church of the Latins nor the Greeks, nor for Saxon, Szeklar, Cuman, or Vlach. She cares only for the land, the forests and mountains and the beasts—and I tell you, milord, your conflict here has made the land bleed until it cries out in its torment for those who can hear.”

  “Those who can hear? Sorcery and devilry.”

  “I am Tzimisce, Lord Jürgen, and I hear it. This land has drunk our blood for more centuries than even the Church can count. Morrow hears the voices of the birds and the beasts, and the cries of her childer. She is angry, but she is clever also. She will let you and Rustovitch tear and worry each other until you are both exhausted, and then—” the slim shoulders shrugged. “She will have the ultimate victory, unless you act now and end it.”

  “If you do not serve Rustovitch, whom do you serve?”

  Again, the Tzimisce appeared to weigh his words before replying. “Those whom I represent claim a different lineage, that of my own ancestor the Dracon, late of Constantinople. Most are scholarly monks, who desire little of the world save a place to pursue their studies in peace—but in these nights, such peace has been hard to secure. It is my hope, milord Jürgen, that I may serv
e your needs as well as my own—and assist in some small way to the forging of a peaceful settlement of this dispute, before it is too late.”

  “So I should give up my claim to this land that my men have fought, bled and died for, and just give it to you and your heretical monks? Don’t make me laugh, Greek!”

  “If the thought displeases you, milord, I can but offer my apologies—it is the only plan I have to offer that might work. But I can assure you, milord, that Lord Rustovitch will like it even less.”

  “Hmm…” Jürgen considered, studied the Greek more carefully. “What did you say your name was again?”

  The envoy smiled. “Vykos, milord. Myca Vykos.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  The Ides of May, 1225

  With Lords Jürgen and Alexander both in Hungary, along with the bulk of their immediate vassals, Magdeburg had become a very quiet place indeed in the spring of 1225. Rosamund was able to act more freely, but found there was precious little to act upon—the war in Hungary occupied all thoughts, especially with the poor news of the expulsion of the mortal Teutonic Knights. Without their cover, the common wisdom went, Jürgen and the rest could not stand against the Tzimisce. It seemed to Rosamund, that much of Saxony and several interested parties in Île de France were waiting to see if anyone would return from the Burzenland at all.

  Thus, she had little reason to expect trouble when Wiftet appeared before her. “An admirer, milady,” he said. “Will you receive him?”

  “Of course. Please, show him in.”

  Wiftet bowed again, and then trotted off on his errand.

  The admirer was cloaked and hooded, his face obscured. His bow was perfect in its grace, even down to the flare of his cloak, and his French carried the accent of the Champagne. “Milady. I am but a humble messenger who begs leave to present his master’s petition for your perusal. Will you accept it?”

  A cold knot began to form somewhere in her belly at his first words; it was his voice, not his words, that captured her attention. A beautiful voice, and a familiar one.

  After all these years, he dares present himself to me again?

  “Lucien.”

  Her visitor pushed back his hood, revealing a youthful face with rounded cheeks, a disheveled mop of brown hair, and haunted lapis-blue eyes. “So, you do remember me. I was afraid you would.”

  “How could I forget? How dare you show your face here of all places?”

  She could almost see his spine stiffening. “Well,” he said, “to be perfectly honest, milady, I am here because Lord Jürgen is not, and as I said, I bring a message. I’ve gambled my unlife on your mercy, Lady Rosamund. Or will you call for your servants and carry out Isouda’s sentence yourself? Cut off my head? Drink me to ashes? Or just stake me out for the sun so you don’t have to hear me scream?”

  “Stop it, Lucien.”

  “As milady wishes.” He held out a roll of parchment, sealed and bound with a red ribbon. “Will you accept my master’s message?”

  Wiftet stepped forward to take the parchment for her, taking his responsibility as her guardian quite seriously, but Lucien withdrew his hand even as the Malkavian reached for it.

  “No. Not you, fool. This message is for milady’s hands alone.”

  “Wiftet.” Rosamund spoke quickly, raising her hand to wave the Malkavian away. “It’s all right.” Wiftet bowed and obeyed, although he didn’t go far.

  Lucien held out the parchment again. “For you, milady. Will you take it?”

  She rose from her seat and approached. Lucien was trembling a little as she came up to him; he dropped down to one knee as she took the parchment from his hand. “Who is your master now, Lucien?” she asked. Then she saw the seal. “Holy Mary.”

  “What other choice did you leave me?” he asked bitterly. “The blood hunt called against me in France—the news traveling to every court in Europe: ‘Lucien de Troyes is outlawed, cast out from the protection of the Traditions and the Blood. Let his existence be forfeit and his blood reclaimed, let his name be blotted out and even his memory be brought to ashes.’ He has a copy of the proclamation, you see, and he reads it to me now and then, just to remind me of where I stand. I sold my soul to the devil, Lady Rosamund, and his name is Jervais bani Tremere.”

  She broke the seal, and unrolled the letter.

  A week after Lucien’s unexpected visit, Rosamund sat on her chair on the dais like a queen on her throne, receiving a humble petitioner. Her guest was Jervais bani Tremere, and humility did not come easily to him, but it was a lesson she felt he much needed to learn, lest he forget his place again in the future. She looked at the petition he had sent ahead of his visit. “This request is best directed at Lord Jürgen, Maestro, not to me. I am but a guest in Lord Jürgen’s domains.”

  “I have sent it to him previously, milady, and made other overtures to him in Hungary,” Jervais answered. “He has yet to favor me with a reply.”

  “Lord Jürgen is on crusade, Maestro,” Rosamund pointed out. “I doubt he has very much time for such matters.”

  “Yes, milady,” Jervais agreed. “I am freshly returned from travel through those lands myself, and I can bear witness to the stout opposition Lord Jürgen faces there. I fear that upon his return—if return there should be—he will be all the more disinclined to receive me, due to our past misunderstandings.”

  “Misunderstandings, Maestro? You conspired to sour relations between the Courts of Love and Lord Jürgen, stole the very blade my queen had entrusted to me to gift to Lord Jürgen, and did a very good job of souring my own position here. I think perhaps you address your petition to the wrong person.”

  “I sincerely hope not, milady,” Jervais said. “It was a great misunderstanding on my part, at least, for which I have been most ardently corrected by my superiors in the clan, I assure you. It is at their direction, and out of the remorse of my own heart at the unwarranted difficulties and embarrassment I caused you, that I come before you this night to offer my most humble apologies.” It was not quite groveling, but it was likely as close to it as the Tremere would come.

  Rosamund found it satisfying, but not satisfying enough. “I find myself searching for a goodly reason to accept the apology of one who has wronged me so, Maestro. What penance do you bring?”

  Jervais glanced at Lucien, who stood behind him. “I understand that my humble servant Lucius is under severe penalty for his part in that affair.”

  “That is no secret.” Indeed, Salianna had made quite sure that every court from London to the Holy Land knew of the blood hunt against Lucien de Troyes for conspiring against the courts.

  “Then, milady, may I make the formal offer to return Lucius to your custody as a token of good faith and a first meager step in returning to your good graces?” A look of sheer horror crossed Lucien’s face and Rosamund felt it echo in her own heart. Were she to accept that offer, she’d have very little choice but to execute the former troubadour who was her brother’s only childe. Josselin would never forgive me.

  “If it would better please you, milady,” Jervais said, “I could surrender Lucius to Lord Jürgen upon his return. Or, I suppose, I could simply keep him discreetly in my household.”

  Rosamund had to fight to maintain control. Jervais had read her perfectly—he had obviously learned a great deal since his blunders in Magdeburg thirteen years ago.

  “Your offer is appreciated but unnecessary, Maestro. Your apology is accepted.”

  “Thank you, milady. I am your most humble servant.”

  She did not miss the look of incredible relief that passed over Lucien’s face, kneeling in his master’s not inconsiderable shadow.

  Jervais clasped his hands over his broad belly with an almost feline smile of satisfaction. “Now that we’re on more diplomatic terms, milady, might we discuss my petition to Lord Jürgen? Given the situation, it occurs to me that perhaps what Clan Tremere most needs at this time is an advocate in the court, someone of impeccable
credentials who has his lordship’s ear and might be persuaded to speak on our behalf.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Near Buda-Pest, Western Hungary

  Eve of the Feast of St. John the Baptist, June, 1225

  For the first time in too long, Sir Josselin dictated a letter:

  “It is over at last, ma petite. I admit being more than a bit surprised—and grateful to Our Lord that I have survived these last few months here in this blood-soaked land. But there is little rejoicing here. I think we are all too weary of the killing, the blood, the fear and horrors we have endured in this place. That we are done with it all, that we are at last returning home to more peaceful pursuits and civilized lands does not yet seem real enough to celebrate. It is almost as if to do so would be to dishonor those who suffered and gave their very lives in our endeavors. Perhaps in a few weeks, once these mountains fade behind us in the shadows and we hear German spoken on every side—or maybe even some good French!—our hearts will find time to mend.

  “Lord Jürgen keeps much to himself of late—even Brother Christof seems concerned for him here in the lands of the Arpad, where we have made camp after leaving Transylvania. I think the price we have paid for our survival—for even though there is peace now, no one favors it with the term victory—weighs most heavily on him. He is a strong man, and his men love him—that we survived at all is much a testament to his leadership, courage and tactical skill. Our Lord Alexander was most valiant and bold in our defense as well—and I am told that he and Marques held back a great force from taking Bran during our last sortie into the terrible woods of this land. I will have more to say of this when I return, little sister, so I beg you to be patient until you hear it from my own lips. For now I come to the hardest part of my missive.

  “My heart is weary, Rosamund, and there is a great emptiness within it, and at my side. I did not have heart to tell you before—my sweet Fabien was taken from me into the hands of Our Lord some six weeks past. He was ever more to me than a servant, and was my closest and most trusted companion these past ten years. I was proud as any father to see him dubbed knight by Lord Jürgen himself, and I have pledged myself to pray for his soul throughout eternity. Now his bones will rest in Hungary—the Greek monks have promised me that his grave will be tended as befits a good Christian, even though they are not of our faith, and I must be content with that. But I would entreat your prayers for him, and also for the soul of our stout-hearted Sir Sighard, who received his wish at Lord Jürgen’s hands at long last, and was as true-hearted a knight as ever I knew, and far better even than many in our own country who have never yet tested their steel in such a forge as we have been tested in here.