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

by Janet Trautvetter

  “My good friend Brother Renaud writes this for me, not for any service he owes to me, but out of the Christian kindness of his heart, and I am grateful for his assistance….”

  “Josselin—please. Give me a moment.” Renaud broke in. There was a tightness in his voice that matched Josselin’s own. “I—I find I hard to write of him and not weep.”

  “I know,” Josselin murmured.

  “Does it ever… get easier?” Renaud wore the surcoat of the Black Cross over a plain white habit; his hair was neatly cut in a clerical tonsure under the order’s white coif, but he had retained his beard in honor of his late Gangrel master. He had seemed to find some peace in his new existence, though, and Josselin was glad to see it. Though Alexander has still not forgiven Jürgen for allowing it, nor Christof for bestowing it, even as desperate for new blood as we were in those damned woods. But I think Olivier would have approved.

  Josselin walked over to where Renaud sat at the copydesk and sat on the long bench beside him. “Only if you let it, Brother. That is your human heart aching—do you really want to lose it?”

  “Never.” Brother Renaud spoke it as seriously as he done his vows. “If this is the price, then I will bear it throughout eternity. I—I would not be like him, Josselin, not in a thousand years.”

  Josselin put a hand on the white-clad shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. “I pray God protect us both from such a fate, my friend.”

  Renaud crossed himself, a gesture Josselin echoed. Then the young unliving monk wiped the blood tears from his eyes. “Go on, Josselin. I’m ready now.”

  “Good. Where were we? Ah… My good friend Brother Renaud writes this for me….”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  The Nones of May, 1226

  “Your Highness.” Lord Hardestadt’s envoy was an elegant Lombard, whose mantle was of black silk velvet lined with a darkness that eddied and flowed in a most disquieting manner, like some sort of animate ink. He bowed respectfully, Rosamund observed, but not too deeply; perhaps he wished to remind Lord Jürgen that he represented the prince’s sire and liege—or perhaps it was simply pride. “Allow me to congratulate you on your recent safe return from the wilderness of Hungary—I bring greetings from your most sovereign liege, Lord Hardestadt, Monarch of Bavaria, Swabia, Franconia, Savoy, Lorraine, Bohemia, Saxony, Lombardy, and Thuringia.”

  “We thank you, milord Ignatio, and welcome you to our court,” Lord Jürgen said evenly. He was wearing his order’s habit this evening, the white surcoat with its black cross over well-polished mail, a white mantle lined in sheepskin, and a white linen coif over neatly trimmed hair. The contrast between the humble garb of the military order and the almost decadent finery of the Lombard envoy was hard to ignore.

  “Your Highness, it would please milord Hardestadt to renew and strengthen the ties between his court and your own with an exchange of envoys; by milord’s grace and with your Highness’s permission, it would be my honor to serve as milord’s envoy in your august court, and I present to you my commission from his own hand, and bearing his seal.” He proffered a rolled parchment, bound in a ribbon and sealed with wax.

  At a signal from Sister Lucretia, Brother Renaud went up to receive the parchment. Lord Hardestadt’s envoy studied him curiously for a moment, then nodded, and handed the document over. Renaud brought it back to Lucretia, who examined the seal before proffering it to her lord. Jürgen broke the seal, gave the top page of the document a cursory glance, and then passed it to a brother who was acting as his secretary for the evening.

  “Let it be recorded then, that we accept Lord Ignatio Lorca of Pavia as the official envoy of our sire, Lord Hardestadt,” Jürgen pronounced, and the clerk made notes in his book. “We welcome him to our realm, and grant him leave to dwell herein and claim such rights of us as befits his commission and rank, which shall include the house set aside for such purposes and those who dwell within to be his lawful chattels.”

  Lord Ignatio bowed again. “I thank your Highness for your welcome and your generosity.”

  Rosamund had once heard Sighard, in one of his more expressive moments, refer to a Cainite court as a gathering of vultures waiting for one of their number to die so they could devour him. Rosamund had experienced the full attention of such vultures when she had arrived in Paris. Despite the fact that Magdeburg was but a quarter the size of Paris, a frontier outpost on the eastern marches of the Empire, the vulture analogy was no less true here. The vultures were fewer in number, but that did not make their hunger any less. Particularly after the less-than-decisive Hungarian campaign, which had broken Jürgen’s long string of military successes, vultures seemed to abound. Lord Ignatio was but one of several such new arrivals, though Rosamund privately thought he looked by far the hungriest. The way shadows clung to his form marked Ignatio as being of Lasombra blood—so although he served Hardestadt, he did not share the high lord’s blood. He thus likely had more to prove. That he might be more than willing to do so at Lord Jürgen’s expense did not escape Rosamund.

  Alexander had come back from Hungary with renewed purpose and new sycophants to compete for his approval and regard. Marques still claimed the position at his right hand, but Lord István’s cleverness and wit often made him look the fool, and when István’s guile failed to charm, Herr Konrad, a Saxon of Brujah blood who had found himself displaced from his domain near Kronstadt by Lord Jürgen’s treaty, could make his mark through the threat—and sometimes the reality—of sheer brute strength.

  Josselin, however, had come back alone. He had been extremely fond of Fabien, more so than Rosamund remembered him being with any who had served him in the past, and it was only with reluctance, and out of sheer practicality, that he agreed to search for another squire. Sighard’s destruction and Renaud’s Embrace meant that those he called friends besides herself were all among the Brothers of the Black Cross, not in Alexander’s household.

  Lord István had even had the temerity—once—to suggest to her that perhaps Josselin might consider taking vows himself. She had merely laughed, but the idea that István might be speaking Alexander’s own mind worried her more than she liked to admit.

  When the formal court broke up, Alexander wasted no time making the acquaintance of Lord Hardestadt’s envoy, who seemed equally eager to meet him as well.

  “Lord Alexander. My pleasure to meet you in person at last. Sir Olivier spoke so highly of you. I was hoping to see him again, actually—”

  “I regret to inform you, milord, that he perished on our journey,” Alexander said smoothly.

  “My most sincere condolences, milord,” the Lasombra replied. “I most enjoyed my discussions with him while he was visiting Lord Hardestadt’s court. He was a most able advocate on your behalf.”

  Alexander smiled. “He did me good service, milord. His loss was most difficult to bear.”

  The two Cainites walked away together.

  Rosamund found herself clenching her teeth, and forced herself to relax. Olivier is gone, and God will judge Alexander for it, even if it is not any night soon. It is to those who yet survive that my duty lies. Schooling herself to smile, she went to speak to Baron Eckehard.

  “We were desperate, in the last few weeks before the truce,” Marques’s voice carried just well enough for Josselin to hear, which he suspected was the entire point. “That’s the only reason he was Embraced. They were choosing anyone who could be spared, really.”

  Josselin knew exactly who Marques was referring to—he seemed to have taken Renaud’s passage into undeath as a personal affront, an action intentionally taken just to deprive Marques of the servant he had long coveted. It wasn’t entirely untrue, either, which Josselin knew full well; although it had been service to Alexander that Renaud had been seeking to avoid when he sought sanctuary from the Order of the Black Cross. So far, Marques had not yet been foolish enough to make such statements when Renaud or Christof could hear—but his audience was Hardestadt’s envoy
, and he was all but challenging Josselin to contradict him.

  Josselin had to forcibly remind himself that anyone who took Marques’s word for anything was likely not worth Hardestadt’s time, and Ignatio likely knew spiteful gossip when he heard it. What he’d do with it, of course, remained to be seen, but the insult was not his to respond to, no matter how highly he regarded Christof’s newest childe. He turned away and left the hall, seeking the fresher air of the garden.

  “Herr Josselin!” A booming voice, in accented German, heralded a mountain of a man in a Teutonic habit. It did nothing to hide the fact that Václav had been born to be a warrior, not a monk. “You’re a hard man to track down—one would think you liked this court rabble.”

  “Good evening, Brother,” Josselin said, clasping Václav’s powerful arm. “I do like it—usually—although I wouldn’t describe it quite that way, of course.”

  “Of course.” Václav grinned, revealing teeth missing from some fight in his mortal years. His long hair and beard were trimmed tonight, although even that did not manage to make the big Bohemian truly look monastic. “I am leaving soon,” he said, his voice rumbling from his barrel chest. “The Duke of Masovia has asked the Teutonic Order for aid to drive the heathen Prussians out of Chelmno, and the Emperor has given his blessing to the crusade. With milord sire’s leave, I’ll go where there’s a real fight. I’ve no patience for courtly prattle—I like to break my enemies, not pretend I wish to talk to them.”

  “Then I wish you God speed, Brother,” Josselin said. “It was an honor to serve with you.”

  “You could come with me,” Václav suggested, although there was a twinkle in the pale eyes; clearly he knew where Josselin’s heart lay. “You’re a good man in a fight. And after Rustovitch’s foul lot, the Prussians will be nothing.”

  “Thank you, Brother, but my duty lies here,” Josselin answered, smiling. “I’m sure you and God can handle the Prussians well enough without my help.”

  Václav laughed. “I’m sure we can! Well, there will always be another fight. To be honest, I almost wish we were sent further north, to Riga. I’ve heard rumor of a new warlord among the pagan tribes there. Some Tartar chieftain out of the east. Might be more of a challenge than what’s in Chelmno.”

  “A new warlord?” Josselin asked. “Mortal or Cainite?”

  “With the stories they tell, who knows? But it’s Chelmno for me. Riga will have to wait.” He clapped a broad hand on Josselin’s shoulder. “Then God’s blessing on you, my friend, and my best to your lady. Keep a good eye open, though. I don’t much like those grasping young bloods his lordship surrounds himself with now.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Josselin assured him. “God keep you.”

  To Lord Jürgen Sword-Bearer, Prince of Magdeburg, We rejoice to hear of your safe return to your domains in Saxony, after such terrible ordeals in Hungary, of which we have heard in full detail. We share your great disappointment in the end results of your campaign against the tyrant Rustovitch. It is regrettable that such noble purposes should be thwarted by so simple a matter as mortal politics. But the Arpad, as you know, are notoriously factional, and can be most unreliable when it comes to putting another’s interest above their own petty rivalries. We also share your grief at the loss of so many of those loyal to you, who fought and died under your command, and regret there could not have been a better result of their sacrifice on your behalf. Still, it is our most fervent hope that you did indeed gain some measure of wisdom from your recent experiences, albeit at such a price we would have never wished you pay.

  We note as well the continued presence of our cousin Alexander of Paris in your realm, and commend you for your generous hospitality to him. We do not need to remind you how delicate the Parisian situation remains, and how unwise it would be for you to pursue any alliance or diplomatic contact with Geoffrey while the prince he forced into exile remains a guest in your court. Indeed, it is for your own good we advise you to have as little to do with even the Courts of Love or their current representative as possible, lest such a gesture be misinterpreted by your guest as being unworthy of your position as his host.

  By our own hand,

  —Lord Hardestadt, Monarch of Bavaria, Swabia, Franconia, Savoy, Lorraine, Bohemia, Saxony, Lombardy and Thuringia.

  Jürgen resisted the urge to throw Hardestadt’s letter into the fire. Disappointment. How very like his sire, to offer support with one hand while stabbing and twisting the knife with the other. He could just imagine how disappointed Hardestadt was.

  Had it been arrogance, then, to answer the Arpad plea for aid against the Tzimisce? Arrogance to hold fast to what he had claimed, with Arpad blessing, even when their support vanished like a mountain mist? Arrogance to believe that his men were capable of meeting whatever hell-spawned forces Rustovitch could call up? Arrogance to think that the fiends would do as they had long done, and fall to squabbling?

  “I was arrogant, Erasmus,” he said aloud. “And as Lord Hardestadt so righteously points out, it is others who have paid the price for my folly and shortsighted ambition.”

  The Cainite priest studied his lord carefully. “Do you wish to make confession, milord?” he asked. “No matter what Lord Hardestadt may believe to the contrary, it is only God who can grant absolution from sins, through the blood of Our Lord, not that which is passed down from sire to childe. And you know that Our Lord is always ready to hear sincere repentance from His lost lambs, even such as we.”

  “Is ambition a sin, Father?” Jürgen asked.

  Father Erasmus considered this a moment. “It was the ambition of Saint Paul to bring the word of Our Lord to Rome itself, and he did. It was the ambition of the Emperor Charlemagne to united all of Europe under one Christian crown, and he did—though only for his lifetime. And it was the ambition of the Fourth Crusade to liberate the Holy Land—but at the end, it was Constantinople that burned. It is not the desire to prove ourselves, or to do great things that is in itself a sin, milord. It is to what ends that desire leads us, and the means by which we strive to achieve it, that is where we may be judged. For God sees not only what we do, but the motivations of our hearts.”

  Jürgen crossed himself and knelt by the priest’s feet. “Then I would confess my sins, Father, and ask absolution.”

  Several nights later, Jürgen still felt the sting of his sire’s letter, and found himself walking along one of the upper halls of the Priory of St. Paul. He stopped when he heard Rosamund’s voice coming from the gardens below one of the windows.

  “Herr Augustin, I’m so glad you came!” she said. “What do you have for me this evening?”

  “I wrote a poem, milady,” said Augustin in the garden. “In—in French. I’m afraid it’s not very good. It’s hard to find the right words in French. German is so much better for poetry.”

  She laughed. “And yet the troubadours would have us all speaking Provençal, while the Italians swear by the tongue of the Florentines. Let me hear it, and I shall judge.”

  They were alone in the garden. A tryst, Jürgen realized, and he could well guess why—since Augustin’s primary function at court was hardly for his poetry, nor were his family connections or skill at arms anything extraordinary. He had all the social grace of a gangly puppy, and yet Rosamund favored him with her kiss.

  Augustin cleared his throat.

  “In a moonlit garden is the fairest rose,

  Beyond the reach of mortal men she grows,

  Her petals soft as a dove’s white wing,

  For her sweet kiss I’d do anything,

  To pluck her free from her thorny bower,

  And in my heart to forever flower.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet,” Rosamund murmured. “Do you truly think I am beyond even your reach, Augustin? Or would you dare the thorns to claim your reward?”

  She flattered him, and Augustin basked in her regard, willingly falling under the spell of her voice, her charm, her beauty. Jürgen knew he should move on, that he had no b
usiness eavesdropping on what was developing below. Yet he found himself lingering—in fact, his own fangs were already lengthening in his jaw in anticipation of what he knew was coming.

  “I would dare anything, milady. Anything at all, if it would grant me your favor.”

  “And what do you know of gardening, Augustin?” she asked him. Her voice dropped in volume and register; Jürgen focused his hearing so as not to miss a single word.

  “Not as much as I should like, milady,” Augustin admitted, though there was clearly hope in his voice.

  “Let me show you….” She moved closer to him on the bench; Jürgen could hear the hem of her gown catching on the dead leaves under her feet. “Roses require a lot of gentle handling… a light touch… like this. Yes, that’s right….”

  “So cold,” Augustin whispered. Jürgen had to concentrate to distinguish Augustin’s words from the increased throbbing of the mortal’s heart.

  “Then you must keep them warm.”

  “Yes…”