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

by Janet Trautvetter

  “What is their commission?” Jürgen asked.

  Akuji’s voice took on a solemn tone, as if she was reciting the very text, save for doing it in German instead of Latin. “They are ordered to investigate, examine, and pronounce God’s judgment upon those mortals who serve the cause of the Adversary by their service to such Cainites and other demons, and to seek out and destroy the damnable heresy known as Cainism. In particular, they are here to conduct an investigation—an inquisition—into the Order of the Hospital of St. Mary of the Germans in Jerusalem. They have now seen the proof of the order’s contamination—bear in mind, good Father, that I use their words, not my own—with the Cainite servants of the Devil, and are even now debating whether they can deal with this infestation on their own, or must need send for the aid of their friends in Rome.”

  Holy Mary. Rosamund did not utter the words aloud—indeed there was not a sound at the table for the space of an Ave after Akuji had finished speaking.

  “Brother Ulrich was not a heretic,” Father Erasmus said softly. “Nor was he careless. Those he… visited… had no cause to complain of him. How then did these knights even discover him? Surely they did not lie in wait for any Teutonic knight who might be traveling back to his abbey after dark?”

  “Apparently when they saw him at services that night, they recognized what he was,” Akuji said. “It would not be difficult then to guess where he must be from.”

  “They will attempt to search the hospital here during the day if they can gain access,” Jürgen said.

  “They might,” Christof said thoughtfully. “But not very hard. Not yet. Even during the day, they’ll have no idea of how strong our defenses are. It would be foolish to charge in headlong, when they do not know our strength.”

  “But Herr Gauthier has never hesitated to do exactly that, as I recall,” Brother Hermann put in.

  “They could have learned from our captured brothers how many we are,” Brother Rudiger said.

  “Not from Ulrich,” Christof said, firmly. “And from the squire’s report, I believe Brother Benedict did not live to face their torture. For which we must thank God, for his end was therefore merciful.”

  Torture. Rosamund suppressed a shiver.

  There was a timid rap on the door, and one of the brothers poked his head in, looking anxious. Brother Christof rose from his place and went to see what was so urgent, stepping briefly outside the room.

  “Were there any of the red monks?” Josselin asked.

  “Red monks?” the veiled Cainite echoed him, apparently curious.

  “The Order of St. Theodosius,” Josselin explained. “They wear robes of a dark red, like old blood. They have hunted our kind in France and the Languedoc for some years now—and it was rumored that they had an alliance with Herr Gauthier and his Knights of the Broken Cross. Even during the crusade in the Languedoc, he was said to be accompanied by one of that order.”

  “I have heard of those brothers,” Rudiger said with a scowl. “They have a monastery in Bergamo. And now one near Munich, a gift of the Count von Murnau.”

  “There were no such monks with them,” Akuji said. “For that, at least, we must thank God,” Father Erasmus said.

  Brother Christof returned, and the look on his young face was grave indeed. “This afternoon, the Poor Knights took the priest from St. Sebastian’s church, to whom Brother Ulrich spoke his confession that evening, acting under the cardinal’s authority. And—milord, I am sorry to say that Brother Richart, whom we missed at compline earlier this evening, was at St. Sebastian’s at that time, and of all the canon monks in that church, they took him as well.”

  Several of the brother-knights crossed themselves. “We must do something,” Hermann said. “They are not many. There must be some way of dealing with them, now, before this goes too far.”

  “If there were any of the damnable heretics left, we could at least point them to a more appropriate target,” Christof said, taking his seat again.

  “We will deal with them,” Jürgen said, flatly. “I will not permit Gauthier and his holy rabble to destroy all we have built.”

  “But they cannot be dealt with—not directly,” Rudiger said. “You’ve already lost two Cainite brothers. And if these men now have the support of Rome—”

  Jürgen’s fist hit the table with a heavy thump. “Nor will I run and hide from the very Church I serve, and in my own city!”

  Rudiger glared back. “This holy rabble seeks the destruction of every last Cainite in all of Christendom! Nothing less will satisfy them! They will not stop until every last one of us is reduced to ashes!”

  “And then what?” Rosamund asked. She hadn’t quite meant to speak aloud, but now every other pair of eyes at the table were focused on her.

  “With all due respect, milady,” Rudiger snorted, “I should think that would be obvious. It won’t matter if we’re all ash in the sun!”

  “That’s a good question, though.” Christof said. “They’d likely go on to other cities… other chapters of our order….”

  “But they’d at least be warned, and prepared.” Hermann leaned forward. “I am not afraid of a fight; I have seen what our brothers can do in battle. But we cannot fight the entire Church—not only is it tactically impossible, but we might then find ourselves opposing God!”

  “This isn’t the entire Church, Brother,” Father Erasmus insisted. “It’s one order, perhaps two if you take the Red Brothers into account, led by madmen. But cardinals, abbots, knights and monks are mortal, and we are not. We can outlast them—we always have. But I cannot believe that God Himself has ordained our destruction by their hands. We serve His purposes just as much as the living Church does.”

  “Well, if you want to be a martyr, Father—” Rudiger began.

  “Enough!” Jürgen’s fist hit the table again, and his glare silenced all present. “We are, I believe, agreed that to fight the Poor Knights directly is unwise, as it might well bring the power of their full order, not to mention the attention of their patron in Rome, down upon us. It goes against our very nature to hide—and since they clearly already know we are part of the Teutonic Order, hiding will only encourage them to search harder—and we have too many in our service to protect them all.”

  “Perhaps martyrs are what we need,” Christof said slowly. “If, as Lady Rosamund said, they thought they had destroyed us all—then perhaps they would be satisfied. We could redistribute our own Order… even send a larger force to Livonia if necessary—and, based on what Renaud has told us, it does sound necessary. Now that we know their purpose, we could better hide our numbers, even those mortals in our service, if there were fewer of us in any given chapter house. The question is, how many would it take to convince them they had, in fact, succeeded in their purpose?”

  “You’re talking about asking your own people to sacrifice themselves?” Rosamund asked, horrified.

  “This is war, milady.” Rudiger said sternly. “Not a tournament.”

  “Nor is it chess,” Jürgen returned. “While Brother Christof’s suggestion is certainly one viable tactical solution, given the circumstances, I am not yet ready to admit it is the only one. Still, we can take certain preparatory steps. I want the Poor Knights watched, as well—by day and by night—and those mortals in our service warned to avoid them. And if—if—it is possible to take one of them alive without alerting all the rest… we will do that too. Meanwhile, Brothers, all our houses should be put on alert, and told to prepare either for battle here or for crusade in Livonia.”

  “And if any more of our brothers fall into their hands?” Father Erasmus asked, quietly.

  “I don’t want there to be any others, until we’re ready to deal with this matter once and for all.” Jürgen replied. “As for Father Simon and Brother Richart… not all martyrs choose their fates. They are in God’s hands now.”

  Josselin had been quiet as they walked back to the house. Rosamund had assumed he had been too involved watching for the possibility
of an ambush by the Poor Knights to waste energy on conversation. Though their lantern was shuttered, emitting very little light, she still felt exposed, vulnerable, as if every eye could see them. She gripped Josselin’s hand so tightly it must have hurt, yet he made no complaint. But when they finally reached the safety of their own haven he did not relinquish her hand, but drew her gently away from the stairs and down the hall to his own chamber, one finger on his lips for silence.

  “What is it?” she whispered urgently, looking up the stairs, back down the hall as if expecting to see Poor Knights or red-robed monks bursting in on them any minute.

  “What? Oh. No, no, petite, nothing like that—” He opened the door to his own chamber, and guided her inside, then hung the lantern from hook and opened its shutters to give them some minimal light.

  “Oh, good.” She almost felt silly for her fears now—or was that Josselin simply trying to soothe her? Sometimes it was hard to tell where her feelings came from when in the presence of other Cainites.

  “Rosamund, we must talk.” Josselin shut the door and listened for a moment to ensure no one had come downstairs to greet them.

  “Talk? About what?”

  He came away from the door, took her hands in his. “Ma petite. I don’t know quite how to put this—I pray you will not think badly of me for saying it aloud, but if I do not, I don’t know who else will before it’s too late. You must be more careful. For both your sake, and his.”

  “What—what are you talking about, Josselin?” She broke away from him, turned away, avoiding his gaze. He followed. “Rosamund, sweet sister. I am not blind. I can see where your heart is yearning—and it is my greatest fear that he will see it too.”

  “And what then should I do?” Rosamund demanded. “Should I then deny the feelings in my heart? Deny love? Am I nothing more than Salianna’s distraction, her revenge and sacrifice for the childe she lost long ago?”

  “I’m not a good one to give advice on feelings of the heart, petite. I wish I knew—I only know that if he ever sees how you look at Lord Jürgen… that worries me, Rosamund. Alexander loved Olivier, and yet, in a fit of anger, he destroyed him. He loved Lorraine, and yet, in his jealousy, he destroyed her also. And he loves you—and he will share your love with no one else.”

  She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “And to think it is you he is most jealous of—maybe he’s not as good at reading hearts as you think….”

  Josselin gently turned her around to face him, then lifted her chin up to meet his gaze. “Rosamund. I cannot ask you not to love—I cannot even master my own heart; how can I expect it of anyone else? Only keep it close, and secret, at least until—”

  “Until Alexander makes me take the third drink, when it won’t matter anymore?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Nothing I say of late is the right thing, is it?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Josselin.” She reached for him, slid her arms around his ribs. He enfolded her in his arms, her head against his chest, his cheek on her hair. “I am grateful for anything you say, whether I want to hear it or not.”

  “Then be sure, petite, I will always be at your side to say it, and protect you however I can.”

  For that moment, at least, she felt safe. And suddenly bold enough to ask him something she’d wondered about for a long time. “Who is she, Josselin?”

  “—What? Who is who?”

  “I do not doubt your devotion, my knight—but I also know that I am not the one who truly holds your heart. I never have—but someone does, am I right?”

  He was silent for a few minutes, although he did not release her. “Why do you ask?” he said at last.

  “Well, it would be nice to know I’m not alone in loving unwisely—and if the one you loved was someone you dared admit you loved, you would not have kept it so secret all this time. And it’s been years, Josselin. Do you think I am blind? Do you think I didn’t notice how loathe you were to leave the Languedoc, or to join the crusade against the heretics? It’s someone in Esclarmonde’s court, isn’t it?”

  “Trust me, Rosamund. You are never alone in loving unwisely—after all, if the heroines of the lays ever loved where they should, there wouldn’t be much of a story, would there?”

  “You’re evading the question, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I confess that I am.” He looked down at her, his expression sober. “‘When made public, love rarely endures.’ You know that’s true.”

  “Josselin, please.”

  He hesitated, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Ah, petite. How can I refuse you? Very well. You’re right, and you’re not alone; does that make you feel better?”

  Then his expression grew serious again. “But at this moment it is your love that poses the risk, not mine. And as your kinsman, your vassal, and as one who holds you dearer than his own survival, I am asking you to please be very, very careful.”

  She hugged him close and promised.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  Soon After the Feast of the Assumption of the

  Blessed Virgin Mary, August, 1230

  Alexander had always been fascinated with maps. To reduce the scope of land and sea, mountains and cities to parchment, so it could be held in one’s hands, reducing the journey of weeks to the width of his hand. For the past centuries, maps had been his only vision of the world outside his own domains, for traveling was not something Cainites did lightly—and a Cainite prince rarely did it at all.

  But he had traveled beyond the borders of his old maps now. His newest maps showed all of the Empire, from the plain of Lombardy up to the Baltic coast, from Savoy to the west and Bohemia and Hungary in the east, even to Constantinople and Turkey. He listened to rumors and traced their sources… here was Buda-Pest, here was Prague, there was Lübeck, and there was Danzig, and Riga. He had been told that the Baltic actually froze in winter, so that the crusaders had walked across the sea to the island of Osel and conquered it. Now he heard—not from Jürgen directly of course, but through his own spies in the prince’s much-vaunted holy order—that some barbarian savage had wiped out an entire troop of the Black Cross knights sent to destroy him. Part of him wondered how strong this Qarakh really was… and what Jürgen would do about him now.

  “Your Highness?” Marques held a map in his hands. “I found this one—” He held it out so Alexander could see it. “You’ve not looked at it in months, milord.”

  “Haven’t I?” Alexander took it, laid it flat on top of the others. This map showed Île de France, with Paris at the center where it should be, the towns and castles of his former vassals marked with tiny colored shields. He looked up sharply at Marques. “What are you trying to say, Marques? That you think I have forgotten Paris? Forgotten what he did to me, what they all did to me there?”

  “No, milord,” Marques said, looking down. “I know you’ll never forget.”

  “But? I hear something unspoken, Marques. Speak.”

  “But how long will you wait, your Highness, before you take what is yours? How long will you let him put you off, ignore all you’ve done for him and do nothing in return?”

  Alexander looked down at the map. There on the edges of his domain was the shield bearing the red and white roses of Isouda, Queen of Love for Chartres. Isouda’s childe was his too, as much as Île de France and Paris… she even lay closer to hand, and yet…

  —How long will you wait before you take what is yours?

  “A very good question, Marques,” he murmured. “A very good question indeed.”

  Peter was not quite asleep when he heard a familiar voice downstairs—one that was neither Josselin nor his mistress. Hastily he grabbed his shirt in the dark and pulled it on over his head, but by the time he looked up Alexander was standing at the door, a dim, shadowy figure with eyes that glittered slightly in the faint moonlight coming in the window.

  “Peter. Do forgive me for interrupting your rest.” Alexander entered Peter’s
bare little room, closed the door behind him. “It’s been some time since we last talked. I hope you haven’t been feeling neglected.”

  Peter bowed to Alexander with all the dignity he could muster, standing barefoot in only his shirt and braies. “Your Highness. We—we didn’t expect you this evening—”

  “No, apparently not.” Alexander came closer. “Now, as I recall, it is your duty to know where your mistress is, at all times—just in case she should need your assistance. Therefore she is never to leave this house without you knowing about it. Am I correct thus far?”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “Therefore you should be able to tell me where she is right now, since she is very clearly not here where she should be.”

  “Of course, your Highness, let me think….” In fact, he was thinking very fast indeed. “I would have written it down, of course, let me check my vade mecum—” His portable lap-desk sat on the floor beside the bed. He went down to one knee and opened it, fumbling after the vade mecum notebook he carried everywhere.

  Alexander reached down, grabbed the front of Peter’s shirt and lifted him up. The Cainite’s eyes caught him halfway up, dark, ancient eyes in a boy’s smooth face. “Now,” the soft, terrible voice continued, “is the time to beg.”

  Peter felt a cold sweat break out over his entire body. His knees turned to water, and if Alexander hadn’t been holding him up, he would have collapsed to the floor. Fear turned to shame as he felt a warm trickle running down his leg, staining his braies. Alexander’s eyes bored into him. He heard a roaring in his ears, felt as though all the humors in his brain were boiling, swelling, preparing to burst out of his skull. Nothing he remembered, thought or felt could be hidden—his entire life, his memories, desires, hopes and fears were all laid bare in an instant to the ancient Cainite’s demanding gaze.