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

by Janet Trautvetter

  “Rosamund—” he murmured, and then bent his head down towards hers and kissed her.

  His moustache teased her skin as his lips explored hers, upper and lower. Her hand found his chest and slid up over his shoulder and into his hair; his arms held her close, one hand sliding down the length of her back. His lips strayed, moving over her cheeks, finding the tracks of her tears and kissing them away, then returning to kiss her again. Her fangs slid free without her even willing them, lips parting for his tongue, exploring his mouth in return. There was a taste of blood….

  Her hunger suddenly opened up as a bottomless void; with a small cry she broke free and buried her face in his shoulder, trembling in her efforts to rein that hunger in, to control the blood-lust and desire that his kiss, his very presence evoked in her.

  “Rosamund—?”

  “You, milord, are no monk,” she murmured into his tunic, and he chuckled. Somehow that evaporated the tension, and even her blood-hunger faded to something manageable, even enjoyable, hovering at a level more akin to eager anticipation than frustration.

  “Would you have me be, milady?” he asked, amused. He freed one hand, reached down and began to unbuckle his belt. She laid her hand over his for a moment.

  “Not for all the world,” she admitted, smiling, and undid the buckle herself. His fingers proved extremely deft on the laces of her gown, and his lips as eager to explore her skin as hers were for him. This was what her soul had longed for, since the first time she had seen him standing tall and proud before his court eighteen years ago: to lie close in his arms, touch him and be touched, to feel his hand on her breast, his legs entwined with hers, his lips exploring her throat…

  Yes. Oh, yes… She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, felt his lips part over the vein. Anticipation, knowing what was coming, was nearly as sweet as the kiss itself; when his fangs pierced her flesh, she gave a soft cry of ecstasy and let the rapture of it take her.

  And shortly thereafter he held her close, as any true knight and lover should, and surrendered himself, body, soul and blood, to her kiss.

  “You still haven’t told me what was distressing you so…” he said, some time later. “But I have a feeling I know. I will protect you, Rosamund; you, Josselin, and your servants. There is no need for you to fear.”

  “And when you go to Livonia with your army,” she asked, softly, “what then? Will you leave him here to watch your throne when you’re gone? Or pack me in your baggage train like one of the nuns—or a camp follower?”

  “Would that I had the luxury of a choice—but I cannot leave, not now. Not with him here. Once again, I must be prince rather than general, and allow Christof and Rudiger to lead my men into battle. Though I must confess—” His fingers trailed through her hair, playing with the silken length of it. “I have found another reason to hold me here as well. A different kind of ambition—and a different prize.”

  “Is that what you see when you look at me, Jürgen? A prize to be won, taken from Alexander?”

  He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, lightly caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You are a prize, Rosamund: a precious jewel that any king would be proud to wear in his crown, a rare and delicate flower that any gardener would cosset and protect, a beauteous lady any knight would willingly fight and die for. And you are a lady of noble blood, of such grace, beauty and wisdom as any prince would feel honored to call his queen. And I will not let him have you. Believe that, my sweet lady.”

  He meant it, Rosamund realized, and for a whole minute she let herself bask in that knowledge, the warm assurances and comfort radiating from his very presence beside her, his touch on her skin, his blood singing in her veins. “I do believe it,” she whispered, and let him gather her close again. When Jürgen held her like this, it was easy to believe he could conquer the world.

  “You are the Ambassador of the Rose,” he murmured to her hair. “What do you think Queen Isouda would say to a proposal of alliance—an alliance of blood?”

  What will Alexander say?

  —He loved Lorraine, and yet, in his jealousy, he destroyed her also…. He will share your love with no one else.

  “I—I am certain that my queen would favor an alliance,” Rosamund murmured, because she had to say something, and she knew it was true.

  “And you, Rosamund? Would that please you as well?”

  His very heart was in those words, and her own heart would break if she refused him outright. “If it were possible, and my queen agreed,” she said at last, “then there is nothing in all eternity that would please me more.”

  “Then it will please me also,” he said, and bent down to kiss her again.

  In the nearby church tower of St. Sebastian, the bells began ringing, calling the monks to morning prayer.

  Lauds! It’s nearly dawn! She started to get up, to reach for her chemise and gown. If I hurry, I can make it, it’s only a few blocks. But Jürgen reached out and intercepted her, letting his hand slide up the length of her arm and draw her back down again beside him.

  “Stay.”

  He was beautiful, even asleep and still as a corpse, long hair disheveled and beard untrimmed. His servants had come in and lit candles, and left a few packets of correspondence on the worktable. Rosamund wondered if they had been surprised to discover someone sharing their master’s bed.

  She let her fingers play across his broad chest, following the curve of muscle and bone under his pale skin, the ragged white lines of old scars. He had not been Embraced as an adolescent boy, but a man in the prime of his years, tall and strong from a mortal lifetime of wielding a sword, fighting his way through life into eternity. Even asleep he was the image of the warrior-king; when he was awake, and his eyes brilliant and alert, looking on the world as something to conquer…

  His hand moved, caught hers in an instant, his grip relaxing as his eyes opened and he recognized her, his face relaxing into a smile. “Rosamund.”

  She felt his regard as a caress, and for a moment wanted nothing more than to fold herself back into his arms, to taste the fire of his blood on her tongue, feel his fangs in her flesh. Somehow she resisted: His blood was as sweet and potent as his smile, but neither totally overwhelmed her good sense, not yet.

  “Milord. I fear I must go—I will be missed—”

  He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Alexander must learn he cannot have everything he wants,” he said smoothly. “He cannot have you.”

  She smiled. “I meant, my servants will be concerned for me. Peter will be worried.”

  “We cannot let Peter worry, then.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  Feast of St. Dionysius, October, 1230

  Rosamund bid her escort goodbye at the door and let herself in. Peter’s office on the ground floor was empty and dark, nor was there any light showing under Josselin’s door—perhaps he’d spent the day at the new commandery with the Black Cross knights. She hurried upstairs.

  The solar on the floor above was dark and empty, the kitchen surprisingly deserted. She listened for a moment, but heard nothing, no murmur of conversation, no movement. Where was everyone? Somewhat more slowly, she went up to the third floor.

  Peter’s room at the top of the narrow stairs was empty as well. She went to her own, and stopped, frozen in place by what she saw within.

  Her chamber looked as though it had been ransacked by the Tartar hordes. The oaken chest that had held her clothes was overturned, the lid torn off its iron hinges and smashed like so much kindling, the shutters torn away from the windows and treated the same way. The remains of the chest, the broken chairs, and the floor were draped in torn remnants of fabric and embroidered trim; even the heavy hangings around her bed had been ripped down and torn to pieces. Rosamund bent and picked up a scrap of white brocade from the floor, recognized its pattern. It had been the sleeve from her favorite cotte….

  —When first he discovered she
had fled, I recall hearing that he went straightaway to her rooms and tore all her gowns to tatters in his fury.

  Numbly, she stepped into the room, fighting the urge to cry, to give in to the red haze that edged her vision. Suddenly the apparent absence of her staff, of Josselin, took on a new, far more disturbing significance, and caused cold terror to grip her unbeating heart. Where are they?

  —the appearance of betrayal is just as dangerous to you as its actuality; be forewarned and wise.

  “No…” she choked, and turned to go, to search the house for any sign—

  “You weren’t here,” Alexander said, petulantly. “I missed you.”

  She froze again, and then turned slowly back, clutching the little scrap of brocade tightly in her fingers as if it were her only shield. “Your Highness.”

  He had been sitting in a corner on the other side of her bed. Now he rose to his feet, and came towards her. His pale cheeks showed dark streaks and smears of bloody tears. So did the chemise he was holding in his hands. “I thought you had left me,” he said, softly. “He wants you to leave, I know he does. And you were both gone. I—I didn’t know what to do.”

  His grief caused her own heart to ache. She knew what it was like to feel abandoned by those she loved. She reached out to him, took him into her arms, and he dropped the chemise and held her closely. “I—I’m so sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t mean to upset you, you know I wouldn’t leave you!”

  “I missed you so much,” Alexander murmured into her ear, and kissed her cheek before releasing her. “I will get you new gowns, my rose, even finer ones. You didn’t really like those old ones anyway, did you?”

  The green wool cotte had been a gift from Isouda, and the white brocade had been made by her mother and sent to her in France for her bridal chest. Josselin had brought back a piece of blue silk velvet from Toulouse, and Margery had sewn a gown of it for her in secret, embroidered with gold, as a surprise….

  “I know you didn’t like them,” Alexander pressed. “And now you can have new ones. That will be much better, don’t you think?”

  —I will give you anything you desire. What can he give you? Nothing.

  “I do like new things, milord—”

  “You didn’t like them.” His eyes bored into hers, and suddenly the white brocade looked silly and childish, the blue velvet tawdry, and she was glad to be rid of them.

  “No,” she agreed. “You’re right, I really didn’t. I really needed some new gowns.”

  He smiled. “You see? I knew it—I always know what you’re thinking, my love.”

  She suppressed a sudden sharp spike of near-panic. Fortunately, Isouda had drilled her in courtly phrases, and she did not need to think clearly in order to answer him. “Now, milord, would you take all the mystery away? What would be the challenge in that?”

  “I have missed you so much, my rose,” he went on. “After we parted, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, not for a minute. Finsterbach is nothing but a hollow pile of stone without you to brighten its halls, and my bed is cold and lonely without you beside me. And that’s when I realized how much I truly loved you. ‘A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thought of his beloved.’”

  It was one of the Rules of Love, although she had not realized Alexander was so conversant in them; they had seemed contrary to his nature. “There is more to love than that, milord.”

  “I love you,” Alexander said, taking her hands. “I thought I loved you even before, but I didn’t really feel it. But I must have, because I was jealous—and real jealousy always increases the feelings of love, that’s what Capellanus wrote, isn’t it? And it’s true, Rosamund, because it has happened to me! Now when I look at you, even think about you—I feel such love that even the langue d’oïl is inadequate to express it.”

  The blood oath wasn’t love, of course—she had heard a dozen debates in Isouda’s court alone on that topic. But to Alexander, it might well feel like love.

  “I am flattered, milord,” Rosamund demurred.

  “I know you’ll feel it too, my love.” Alexander came closer. “You will come to love me, just as I love you.”

  “In time, milord, of course,” she demurred. “The heart cannot be hurried.”

  “What shall I do, my rose, to prove my love? Shall I kill those pitiful knights who have been giving Lord Jürgen such difficulties? Shall I climb a mountain of glass, or tame a dragon to be your palfrey? I would give you Paris, and Salianna’s head on a pike, but—” His expression darkened, and the fury suddenly radiating out of him was enough to force her back a step in alarm. “He will not give me troops as he has promised! After all I have done for him, he will not support me!”

  Looking for something on which to vent his fury, Alexander picked up the remains of her oaken wardrobe chest and hurled it into the wall. The heavy missile shattered and demolished the plaster between the timber beams, exposing the brick beneath and causing a shower of plaster and chunks of broken wood to fall to the floor.

  Rosamund bit back a cry—better the wall than one of her people—and heard the faintest of whimpers and slight creaking from somewhere up above. The attic. They’re in the attic—I must keep him away from them. And the Poor Knights as well—I will not have him undo all we have striven for! “Would you truly prove your love, Alexander?” she asked, thinking hard. If she could direct him, use the bond while she could… “You know a true lover considers nothing good except what he thinks will please his beloved. And the easy attainment of love makes it of little value. Difficulty of attainment makes it prized.”

  “Yes! Yes, exactly,” he said, coming to her and taking her hands. “I can deny you nothing, my love. Tell me what you would have me do, and I shall do it.”

  This is not love, she reminded herself, as his eagerness to please warmed her heart. She had to fight down the impulse to give in to it, to treat him with the same easy affection she would offer Josselin, whose love did not come from her blood nor require anything of her in return. “I must think on it, milord,” she said, and gave him her warmest smile. “You are no ordinary knight. What might prove a challenge for an ordinary man would hardly be a proper test of your love, for it would be too easy.”

  He gave her an almost boyish grin. “Yes. Set me a task, milady. Then you will love me as I love you, and you will be mine forever.”

  “But you must let me think on it, and be patient. You can be patient, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he assured her. “But I pray you, do not let me wait too long!” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, then turned it over and kissed her palm.

  So much for patience. “I must beg your leave, milord, then, to retire so I may consider—no, milord!”

  “I have only so much patience, my love,” he whispered, as he slid back her sleeve and sank his fangs into her wrist.

  That which a lover takes against the will of his beloved has no relish, she told herself, but it didn’t help. His desire was nearly as overwhelming as his kiss; her knees buckled, and he followed her down, suckling greedily, sending shudders of pure sensual delight shooting along her nerves and within her veins. He made little noises of satisfaction as he drank, and she could not restrain a whimper of her own, hating herself for enjoying it so, but being unable to resist it.

  This is not love, this is not love, she repeated to herself over and over again, her litany of survival, of keeping her mind her own. She was still repeating it even after he ceased to drink, picked her up and laid her gently on the ruin of her bed.

  “We will be so happy,” he whispered to her, and kissed her forehead. Then he was gone.

  She was aware of footsteps, of voices, of mortal heartbeats and the scent of blood. Familiar voices, familiar presences nearby, jarring to acute preternatural senses. Hunger stabbed at her, and the Beast growled a warning. Go away. Leave me alone, let me die—

  “Milady—?”

  “Peter, be care—Rosamund, no!”


  Crimson flared across her vision. She snarled and leapt up, fangs bared and eyes wild with fury. But her attack was foiled. Something larger and heavier than herself slammed into her and bore her to the floor. She struggled, spitting, snarling, but her adversary was stronger than she was, and held her fast. Her fingers grabbed an arm and wrist, and she sank her fangs into unresisting flesh. Blood reached her tongue, sweet and powerful and cold, and she gulped it down, even as a trembling hand buried itself in her hair, and a hoarse voice whispered endearments in her ear.

  Cainite blood. Josselin.

  “Rosamund, listen to me, hear me. You know me, ma petite….”

  Rosamund found herself latched on to Josselin’s arm, his greater weight pinning her down, both of them sprawled on the floor in her ransacked chamber. Suddenly embarrassed, she withdrew, licked the ragged wound closed. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Let me up—”

  “Of course.” Josselin lifted himself off and glanced up at the circle of pale, frightened faces of the mortal servants. “Leave us,” he said. “I promise, she’ll be out to see you soon. Go.”

  Obediently they left, and Josselin bent over her, picking her up in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let him carry her. When he set her down again, she was a bit surprised to find herself on his bed, in his own little chamber downstairs. “Josselin—I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, petite. It’s all right—better me than Peter, at least. I just thank God and all the saints you’re—” He looked at her more closely. “What did he do?”

  “Not—not that. I didn’t drink, I’m still free. He—needed reassurance, I guess.”

  “Bastard—” Josselin hissed.

  “Josselin, no,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t even think it. Why don’t you see it, either of you? You cannot protect me! No one can!”