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

by Janet Trautvetter

  The squire reached across, grabbed Jaufres’s tunic, and pulled him bodily around and up against the wall with jarring force. Jaufres’s angry protest froze in his throat when he stared into the squire’s eyes, cold and dark as the inside of a tomb. Be silent, a voice in his head commanded, and he could not speak; and listen, and suddenly there was no sound in his ears but the squire’s soft voice. “I see…” the squire murmured. “I could kill you for what you were thinking of her just now… but I’ve thought of something better. I’m going to give you what you want, Jaufres. I hope you enjoy it as much as I will….”

  My dearest Rose—

  By way of this missive may I introduce our young friend Jaufres, with my best wishes and most sincere affections. He tells me he is something of a poet; I trust you will find his talents to your tastes.

  —A.

  Rosamund folded the parchment and set it aside. It was unusual for Alexander to send her a vessel—especially a handsome young man. Still, it was never wise to spurn his gifts. “Milord tells me you are a poet, monsieur,” she said, smiling.

  Jaufres looked confused for a moment. “Your… lord? I—I thought he was a squire of your household. He was so young.”

  “He is somewhat older than he appears,” she said, taking his arm. “But what sort of poetry do you favor, and in what tongue—monsieur, are you well?”

  Jaufres rubbed at his eyes with one hand, wincing as if in sudden pain. He swayed on his feet for just a moment, and she held him steady; if he wondered how such a slightly built girl could do such a thing, he did not show it.

  “Monsieur Jaufres? Perhaps you should sit down—”

  But the spell seemed to pass; he stood straight again and smiled at her. “I—I am quite well, milady,” he assured her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “What kind of poetry do you most enjoy? I believe there is an entire chanson to be found in your eyes alone….”

  So beautiful… so sweet. Alexander’s body was absolutely motionless in his chair, his eyes open and unseeing. This was what he had wanted for so long, to hold her, caress her without holding back—and see just how far she allowed her mortal lovers to go. Jaufres’s desires were easily aroused, and felt as foreign to him as the instincts of a beast. Rosamund, however, managed his crude advances with grace, restraining his groping hands with little more than a glance and a raised eyebrow. In the end, the pleasures of Rosamund’s cool touch, the sharp pain/pleasure of her fangs piercing his flesh, the ecstasy of blood and flesh that followed, was even greater than he had hoped.

  But when he came back to himself, leaving Jaufres’s body to find its own way back to his lodgings, it was no longer enough. He could taste blood where his fangs had pierced his lips, but it did not satisfy him. Jaufres’s desires had only served to enflame his own, and his Beast was aroused, growling in frustration, having been forced to watch another Cainite satisfied while it still hungered. He rose from his chair. The weaver’s daughter with dreams of the blacksmith’s apprentice no longer interested him; nor did the passions of the laundress for a certain red-haired guardsman. Only one sweet throat would satisfy him now.

  And this time, he would not be denied.

  The company of Poor Knights of Acre who had established themselves near Magdeburg gathered around the table in the main hall, which served as both chapter-house and refectory. The estate had been left to their order in its late master’s will, out of gratitude to the order’s grand master and doubtless in hopes of atoning for past sins. The order prayed for the good of his soul at every morning mass.

  As the only layman at the table, Otto von Murnau felt a bit like a duck in the henhouse. His fine clothes in dark blue and maroon, the decorative brass on his belt buckle and the scabbard of his sword, even the rings on his fingers, set him apart from the brothers in their plain white wool and broken red crosses. He kept his mouth shut except to eat, and listened to the brothers discuss their plans, wondering what his own part in them might become.

  “I think the Teutonic Hospital of St. Mary is the place to start.” Brother Reinhardt ate awkwardly with his left hand; his right arm ended in a stump at mid-biceps. “Do you remember last year, when the cursed wolf did this—” and he half-lifted the stump, “I noted even then that the Teutonic Knights who joined our night vigils carried silver. I saw it. They knew.”

  “Knew what?” Otto asked. “Your pardon, sir,” he added, offering Herr Manfred a brief bow from the neck. “But anything out of the ordinary can be a sign of Lucifer’s get—and I’m terribly curious. What vigil?”

  “Brother Reinhardt was attacked by a giant wolf last winter near Brandenburg,” the knights’ commander explained. “The monster savaged his sword arm before his companions were able to drive it off with fire and prayer. The curse from the fangs of such a beast is such that we feared the infection had already spread, though we took the arm as soon as we could. But thanks be unto God: After three months of prayerful vigils on the night of the full moon, Brother Reinhardt showed no sign of succumbing to the curse, and was pronounced cured.”

  “Thanks be unto God,” Otto agreed. The brothers all crossed themselves, and Otto echoed the gesture.

  “How did you get dragged into the cardinal’s mission, Herr Otto?” Herr Manfred asked. “You’re no cleric. I know your father, in fact. Good man.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Otto replied, as smoothly as he could. “My uncle, Brother Leopold of the Dominican Order, suggested to Grand Master Gauthier that I might be of some use to your endeavors here. I have had some experience fighting the enemies of God.”

  “Good, good. Experience is a good thing, harrowing as it may be. Will you be taking vows then?”

  That caught Otto off guard. In fact, he wondered what exactly Gauthier had written in that letter. “Vows? Oh. No, sir. No, that’s not why I’m here at all.”

  There was silence around the table. Several of the brothers gave him odd looks, as if they couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to jump feet first into lifelong vows of celibacy and poverty.

  “Well, to be honest, lad, you’ve not the look of a serious fighting man about you anyway,” Herr Manfred said kindly, and Otto wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. “But why did Herr Gauthier send you, if not to join us in the fight?”

  “I have fought them, sir. But that is not the reason I was sent. You’ve a dozen men here better with the sword than I. It’s not in fighting the minions of Lucifer that I am most useful to you, though I certainly will if need arises, but in finding them in the first place.”

  “Finding them? Good! God’s teeth, that’s excellent, in fact. That’s exactly what we’ve been needing. How do you do it?”

  Otto hesitated. It was one thing to discuss the family secret with Uncle Leopold, or Cardinal Marzone’s little circle of hand-picked confidants, or even Sister Teresa. It was something else to talk frankly and openly about it with a group of men he had just met, who didn’t understand. But that little talent was why he was here, why the cardinal and Gauthier had been so keen on sending him north to aid the Poor Knights on their chosen mission. Are we not all brothers in the same fight, at least in spirit?

  “It—it’s awkward to explain, sir,” Otto began. “It’s not something I can teach. It’s just something I know. I can identify a Cainite, a shape-changer or a witch, even if they’re trying to disguise themselves, sometimes even those unfortunates who serve them. It’s Our Lord’s own gift, and it has never failed. You can test me if you like.”

  The master rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. “You can pick them out even among a crowd of good Christian folk? How?”

  Otto reminded himself that Herr Gauthier himself had chosen these men, and they had to be able to trust each other if they were to accomplish God’s work. He forged on ahead.

  “I can smell them, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  The Ides of July, 1230

  “The larder needs cleaning,” said Fidus. “And rest
ocking.”

  That meant there was a body that needed to be gotten rid of. Lucien wondered sourly who’d done it this time. Usually it was Jervais, but even Fidus was careless now and then. Especially if Lucien was around to clean up the mess, and go foraging—hunting for some other unfortunate bastard no one would miss, to replace the dead one. When it came to filling their own bellies, the Tremere were the most unimaginative vampires he’d ever met. Perhaps that accounted for their dispositions. Fidus was only an apprentice, of course, but he seemed to think his Tremere blood made him inherently superior—a notion Lucien felt no obligation to reinforce. Particularly since there were some things—like foraging—that Lucien was actually far better at than the much younger Tremere.

  “Lucius, are you even listening?” Fidus demanded. “You know what he’ll say if he goes down and finds a corpse stinking the place up.”

  “No, Fidus,” Lucien said in his sweetest voice, “what will he say?”

  “Lucius!” The bellow came from the floor above. The sound of his master’s voice triggered the usual rush of hope, eager anticipation and hollow dread in Lucien’s unbeating heart. Not even Josselin, who had made him what he was, could engender such a mix of feelings in him anymore. But then, it wasn’t Josselin’s blood he’d drunk three times.

  Fidus merely smiled. “Don’t forget to clean the larder after he’s done with you.”

  Lucien ignored him; his feet were already on the stairs. “Coming, Maestro!”

  “Did you enjoy your visit with your sire, Lucius?” Jervais asked, when he got there. “I’m sure you’ve made him very proud, with all the things you’ve done.”

  Lucien spotted a letter lying on the table, recognized Peter’s formal, angular hand, and the official rose seal. A brief letter, only a few lines—which doubtless explained his master’s temper right now. She’s put him off—again. He felt all the anticipation, the pleasure, the hope he’d first experienced at Jervais’s call, turn to something cold and gelatinous and drain away into his belly, leaving only despair and a deep sense of shame.

  “Of course—he doesn’t know all the things you’ve done, does he?” Jervais went on, not even waiting for him to respond. “I rather suspect there’s a few things you’ve never told him—that you would really rather he didn’t learn, aren’t there? Well? Aren’t there?”

  “Yes, Maestro,” he agreed, miserably.

  “But he doesn’t need to know about them. It’s best he thinks of you as—dare I say it—honorable as he imagines you to be, misguided, perhaps, but having the best intentions. Not the desperate little sleaze who would betray his own kin to keep them from learning what a self-centered, greedy little snot he was behind the angelic facade. And I’d like to help you with that, Lucius. I know how it is to want to prove yourself better than your sordid past would lead one to believe. But I need you to help me a little too. You can do that, can’t you, my little songbird?”

  It was blackmail, of course, but that wasn’t what he really cared about. If he was able to help, the rest wouldn’t matter any more. To help Jervais now would erase all the things in the past that haunted him; all the shame, guilt and desperate fear would melt away before his master’s smile. “Yes,” he cried, and he fell to his knees, grasping at the sorcerer’s hand. “Yes! Oh, yes, I can help you, milord—please, tell me, I’ll do it right away!”

  “It’s not that easy, Lucius. But let’s see if you can do it. I want you to think about the Lady Rosamund. You know her far, far better than I do, of course—that’s where you can help me. She must have something she hides, something she’s ashamed of, a secret sin she cannot resist, some unfulfilled longing she holds deep in her heart. Tell me about that, Lucius. Tell me something about Lady Perfection that she wouldn’t want me to know. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

  Lucien’s face fell. Rosamund. Rosamund had been kind to him. What can I tell him about Rosamund….

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking, milord, I am—she’s very young, she’s always been protected!” Desperately he searched his memory. Josselin loved her, of course, but Jervais could see that for himself, so that wouldn’t do.

  “Well, she’s not so protected now, is she? Come on, Lucius. You can do better that that.”

  “She—she wanted Lord Jürgen to—to find her pleasing,” he blurted out. “She talked of little else, even on our trip home. I got rather tired of hearing it, to be honest. I’m sure her feelings haven’t changed. Even with his Highness…” His voice trailed off. Alexander frightened him. Alexander knew. And Rosamund hadn’t said anything, but he’d known she was frightened, too. I would be too, if I were…

  “His Highness who?” Jervais interrupted. “Lord Jürgen?”

  Not so protected now. The revelation was so strong, it struck him dumb for a moment. The schemes of elders, and their fondness for re-enacting their own history. The pitch and tone of voices, even among the servants of the house—if nothing else, his musician’s ear was very attuned to the quality of voices, the delicate nuances that said what words could not—

  “Lucius—” Jervais started, warming up, “I believe I asked you a question!” The last word fairly shook the room, and was punctuated by a blow that split his lip and sent him sprawling, crashing into a heavy oaken table.

  But for once his master’s temper didn’t send him cringing back on his knees; the taste of his own blood in his mouth, the twinge in his shoulder where he’d struck the worktable, were nothing compared to the incredible excitement bubbling up inside him, the sheer joy of being able to answer his master’s question.

  “Forgive me, milord, Maestro, but—but I only now realized it. I hadn’t seen it before, but it’s so obvious—well, obvious to one of us, I suppose, but you’d have to know the story. But it has to be, that’s why he—”

  “Lucius!” Jervais grabbed his tunic and hauled him up to his feet. “Talk sense! Realized what?”

  Lucien took a deep breath. “It does make sense, Maestro. But first I have to tell you a story, so you’ll see how it all fits. It’s about a girl named Lorraine….”

  “How many churches thus far?” Otto asked, resignedly, looking up at the shadowy hulk of the stone tower. He’d gotten used to daily mass while in Cardinal Marzone’s service, but attending mass or other services seven times a day, usually at different churches as they searched for clues to their quarry, was almost more virtue than he could bear. Forgive me, Lord, but I am not suited for such a holy life. Would it be too much to ask for some sign of our quarry this time?

  “Six,” Brother Emil said cheerfully. “It’s good for your soul, my friend. And if this doesn’t turn up any clues, we’ll put you in a novice’s robe next and start attending divine office at local abbeys.”

  Otto managed a polite chuckle. Emil meant it as humor, but there was still the underlying message that he expected it would be only a matter of time before Otto realized where his duties really lay and took vows himself. Otto had politely declined the loan of a Poor Knight’s habit and surcoat, and borrowed instead a plain cotte and mantle from his manservant Adam, so he could join the Knights at compline services at St. Sebastian’s as one of their lay servants. This at least allowed him to be in their company within whispering distance—should there be anything worth whispering about—without attracting any particular notice.

  They entered the church, the Poor Knights going down the right side of the church, Otto and Adam following. Uncle Leopold had been quite certain that he’d once picked up distinct devil-spoor in several Magdeburg churches, but so far Otto hadn’t found a trace. Still it was the only clue they had—as far as he could tell, Magdeburg’s citizens did not habitually find mysterious bloodless or dismembered corpses, nor did children vanish off the streets at twilight. The curfew was reasonably enforced and rarely broken.

  The Poor Knights weren’t the only worshippers here from the military orders, however. Otto recognized the distinctive white habits and black crosses of three knights of the Teuton
ic Order as well, some distance back from his companions with their broken red crosses.

  Otto leaned forward slightly and tapped Brother Reinhardt on the shoulder. “Brother,” he whispered. “Do any of the German knights behind us look familiar to you?”

  The one-armed knight glanced behind them briefly. “The younger one, perhaps. It’s too dark in here to see properly.”

  “Maybe I should go back and check—” Otto began, but Emil shook his head.

  “Not now, the service is starting. Afterwards, you scurry out as if to get our horses. We’ll take a better look as they leave.”

  Otto scurried, as instructed, as soon as the priest finished intoning the Latin benediction. As it happened, however, the three Teutonic Knights seemed to be in no hurry to leave. As the resident canon monks filed out of the church—there being few laymen at such a late service—the German knights came forward even as Otto was moving back. He did remember at the last minute to move aside for them and humbly bow his head, as any good servant should, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to inhale as they passed.

  It was a mistake. The stench that wafted up from the knights’ habits was foul as rotting fish; it caught in his throat and triggered a coughing fit so fierce that it brought tears to his eyes. He kept his head bowed and staggered past the knights, one of whom reached out a hand to assist him.

  “Are you ill, sir?”

  He shook his head and kept going, ducking around a pillar to catch his breath and wipe his eyes. I should really be more careful what I pray for.

  Adam joined him a minute later, his expression anxious. “Milord? Are you—”

  Otto waved him to silence. Brothers Emil, Mathias and Reinhardt were close on his heels, and Otto fell in behind them as they exited the church.

  “Well, that was quite a performance,” Emil said in a low voice as soon as they stepped outside. “Does that mean we’ve found something at last?”