“Maybe it’s because we—” he stopped. “Either of who?”
“Jürgen,” she whispered.
“Peter said you didn’t come home last night.”
She heard the question he did not voice, and nodded.
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Yes. At least I thought I did. But—but once you taste the blood, how do you even know anymore? Does it matter after that? Is it Jürgen I truly love, or Alexander, or—” She dropped her gaze, struggling with the churning of her own emotions when she looked up his face.
“Or me?” Josselin smoothed back her hair, gently. “The blood isn’t love, Rosamund. You know that.”
“But it feels the same,” she persisted. “And if it feels like love, then what difference is there, really? If I took the third drink, it wouldn’t matter anymore. I’d be happy, and never know how miserable I was—”
“No,” Josselin said. “You’d know, trust me. You’d know, and yet you’d be equally convinced that the reason you were so miserable had nothing to do with him, because how could someone you loved so much be someone you could hate, who stole your will and your self-respect? So when you were unhappy, you’d blame yourself, and wonder what the hell you’d ever done wrong—”
She felt his pain at that moment as if it were her own, ached to soothe him, make it all better, do anything it took to ease the anguish that memory brought him. His blood, she realized, and then, who did this to him? And then she knew, felt it in the echoes of his blood, of the connection they shared. “Salianna.”
“Yes, Salianna. A long time ago, when I still breathed. But he will be no better, Rosamund. You know he won’t, you’ve known him long enough.” He shook his head. “Love isn’t just how you feel, Rosamund. It’s what you do.”
“Then what shall I do?”
He was silent for a long time. “I wish with all my heart I had an answer for you,” he said at last. “Sleep here tonight, Rosamund, and try not to worry. I’ll send Blanche and Peter down to see to you.”
“What about you?”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve slept in rougher quarters, petite, and the cellar is dry and secure. Rest, and think, and I’ll do the same.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “You are not Lorraine, and you will not let your passions run away with you.”
Passions are horses. It was something Isouda had said once. Rosamund thought about it even as she was assuring Peter and Blanche—and indeed, it seemed every mortal in the household—that she was indeed unhurt and did not blame anyone for the state of her bedroom save Alexander himself. Blanche brought her a shift to sleep in, and Peter promised to see to having the room straightened up and the wall and shutters repaired as soon as possible.
Passions are horses. What was the rest of it? Josselin would know—he remembered everything—but something in her wanted to answer this one herself. Oh, yes…
—Passions are horses, swift and strong, but you must keep them under control. They must be made to serve your needs and directed on their course, not allowed to carry you over the precipice.
—You have in all things ever been my greatest pupil, and I have every confidence you will not disappoint me even in this darkest night.
“Peter,” she said softly, as he was turning to go. “Leave the candle—I want to read for a while.”
A familiar leather courier’s pouch hung from a peg on the wall; Rosamund got it down and emptied out its contents on the table, a half-dozen thick parchment packets, each bearing a well-loved seal.
She picked one up, opened it, edged the candle closer, and began to read.
—Lorraine was a fool… consider well the consequences of your actions even when great passion moves you.
—even the greatest and the least among us have their vulnerabilities as well as their strengths, and you are best served to make use of them both.
She chewed at her lower lip and thought for a moment. Alexander’s vulnerabilities… his strengths…. Pride. Courage. Tenacity. A powerful Cainite, prince and warrior doomed by his sire to be forever a boy, never a man… Pride. His pride had served her well before, and Jürgen’s pride was no less. Would that serve her now?
—Only be careful what mask you choose….
She would have to be very careful indeed.
Chapter Thirty
Near Magdeburg, Saxony
All Souls’ Night, November, 1230
The cotte had been Margery’s, of rich blue damask, the finest thing she had owned. Blanche and Katherine resized it for her, and Peter salvaged enough of the white brocade to make a bit of trim around the collar and hem. The kirtle beneath it was the angel’s white samite, and another piece of the white brocade and a scrap of the green wool were fashioned into the favor for her belt: the white rose of a Toreador ambassador. She wore her hair loose in a cascade of copper-gold waves, under the circlet Alexander had given her. And at her throat…
“Are you sure that is wise, petite?” Josselin asked. “I’ll admit he has good taste, but still—”
She took the brooch out of its little box. It was a beautiful piece of work, a stylized gold rose on a blue enamel background. The note, with Jürgen’s characteristic brevity, had simply said For milady, but she knew his hand. “He will expect me to wear it,” she said, and pinned it on.
The great hall of Hundisburg Castle was crowded. Located seventeen miles from Magdeburg proper, Hundisburg now served as the temporary commandery of the Order of the Black Cross, and for tonight at least, Jürgen’s court. Though fewer than usual of the Black Cross knights were present, there were still sufficient to make an impressive showing. Cainite lords from most of Saxony and Brandenburg were there, and the emissaries of a number of other Cainite courts, including Ignatio Lorca from Hardestadt’s own household. Rosamund wondered how many of them expected Jürgen to announce his departure for the Livonian crusade. Even Jervais—who had likely not been expressly invited, but had the gall to show up anyway—lurked back near the doors.
Josselin, resplendent in his own court finery, including his blue surcoat with the three white swans, but politely unarmed, stayed close by her side as she greeted those she knew and exchanged diplomatic pleasantries. After six years in Jürgen’s court, she knew almost all the regular emissaries, and even had the delight of surprising Sir Robert of Norfolk, envoy from Lord Mithras in London, with her native fluency in both English and Norman French.
“Have you thought of a quest for me, my rose?” Alexander asked her, taking her hand.
Rosamund sensed Josselin stiffening beside her, and concentrated on remaining calm, projecting reassurances. “I have, milord,” she said, “but this is hardly the time—but you will know it very soon, I promise you.”
“After court, then,” Alexander murmured, and kissed her hand, his dark eyes remaining fixed adoringly on her face. “For I can wait no longer.”
“Of course,” she assured him, and then let Josselin lead her to their places, as Lord Jürgen’s herald stood in front of the throne. Wiftet strutted in as well, and took his usual place on the front of the dais.
“His Highness, Jürgen von Verden the SwordBearer, Overlord of Saxony and Thuringia, Landgraf of Brandenburg and Prussia, Lord Protector of Acre, Grand Master of the Black Cross, Prince of Magdeburg!”
The Cainites and their mortal servants hardly needed prompting to bow, as Jürgen strode through the room, followed by Brother Christof, Father Erasmus and a well-armed escort of Black Cross knights. Yet, despite his monastic escort, Jürgen was once again dressed as a secular lord, much as he had been the night they had arrived six years before, his tunic emblazoned with his own red eagle, black velvet mantle trimmed with ermine and lined with scarlet silk. At his side he wore the same sword she had brought to him from France, eighteen years before.
To see him again, even though it had barely been three nights since she had lain in his arms, thrilled her to the core of her being—her warrior prince, lord and lover. She forced herself to notice Ale
xander as well, standing near the throne, remind herself of her purpose. He will grant what I ask, she reminded herself. He must.
“Rise,” Jürgen told them, turning to face them. “We have much of importance to discuss with you this evening. The Order of the Black Cross leaves in a few weeks on crusade in Livonia, to hunt down and destroy the pagan Cainites who threaten our peace, and the peace of the German settlers and missionaries to the tribes of that land. You have doubtless heard the rumors of a barbarian warlord from the east, a wild Tartar of Gangrel blood who has claimed that land and vowed to drive all Christians out of Livonia. This insolence shall not be borne. Our holy knights have sworn to hunt down this Qarakh and destroy him, for the glory of God.
“I have every faith that they will succeed, even though I will not be leading them. My responsibility, as prince and overlord, is to remain here, and deal with the matters that cannot be handled with a troop of knights or a well-honed blade.” He glanced around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. Rosamund thought his smile started when his eyes fell upon her, but she couldn’t be sure. Still he did smile.
“I am told that I may find myself preferring the field of battle than the deadly game of politics—but I will not shirk my duties in either arena, nor will I give ground before any foe, for that is not how God fashioned me. Yet some foes there are that require a particular kind of diligence, and I would warn you of them now.”
He raised his hand, and three Black Cross brothers stepped forward. One holding up a knight’s white surcoat bearing a broken red cross, the other two holding up wooden boards painted with heraldic devices. “Learn these emblems, we command you, and carry the word back to your own domains, for they represent those who would destroy us all. Avoid them, and defend yourselves with great caution—for we have learned that their patronage comes from the Curia in Rome itself. The Order of the Poor Knights of Acre is led by Gauthier de Dampiere, whose name some of you may already know. The Order of St. Theodosius, who have attacked our kind in France, Savoy and the Languedoc—know them by their robes the color of old blood. And the House von Murnau of Bavaria—patrons and supporters of the Knights of Acre and the Red Monks, at the very least, if not more. We have but recently diverted them from these my domains, and any who dare attract their notice again in my domain will reap serious consequences—so that surrendering to the torture chambers of the Poor Knights may seem the lesser hazard than facing my judgment.”
A murmuring swept through the assembly. Clearly some knew one or another of the orders or the noble family that Jürgen had just named, or had heard stories of their activities. Rosamund suspected the severity of Jürgen’s pronouncement was getting some commentary too. The Silence of the Blood, one of the traditional laws of their kind, already forbade Cainites from attracting undue attention from mortal authorities, but in practice, the level of its enforcement varied widely. Jürgen had just drawn a hard line, one that would be harsh indeed to enforce; yet having said it, he would now have no choice but to do so.
Jürgen let them murmur a minute or two, then signaled the knights with the emblems to remove them. “I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank those who were instrumental in diverting the Poor Knights away from this city: Brother Christof, Father Erasmus, and the other brothers of our order, some of whom gave their very existence to defend us all; I would also like to acknowledge the valued assistance of Akuji and Wiftet—yes, that’s you, Wiftet—” he added as the jester spun around on his butt and looked up at his lord with wide-eyed surprise.
“What did I do?” Wiftet cried out in dismay. “Whatever it is, milord, I’m very sorry and it will never happen again!”
There was laughter from those gathered in the hall, and Jürgen paused for a moment for it to die down before continuing. “I would also ask Herr Josselin de Poitiers and Lady Rosamund of Islington to come before me, for their particular assistance in this matter went far beyond the requirements of ambassadors to our court.”
Josselin took her hand and led her up to the front. He bowed and she curtsied, trying to maintain control of her passions, lest her colors betray her to any who might be watching.
Jürgen smiled, presumably at them both, but it seemed to Rosamund that the greater warmth of it was directed to her.
“Herr Josselin,” Lord Jürgen said, “you have faced many dangers on our behalf, both in Hungary and here in Magdeburg, and have done so with courage and grace, even though you had sworn no oath, nor owed us any service save that of a guest in our realm. Nor will we ask such an oath of you now. Even so, we now declare that you are a guest no longer, but a knight of our court; and as such, you are granted the right to bear arms in our presence and in our court, in our service and your queen’s. Brother Christof, arm him.”
Christof stepped forward, carrying Josselin’s own sword belt, and buckled it around his waist. Josselin bowed. “I am honored, your Highness, by your regard and I thank you. If my oath were not already given elsewhere, please know it would be yours.”
She barely listened. Her thoughts were flying too fast for the words to make sense. Perhaps there had been something in his eyes when he looked at her, or there was truth to the story that sometimes lovers who shared blood could read one another’s thoughts. For whatever reason, his words of three nights before suddenly took on new meanings that somehow, in her entrancement, she had not understood before now.
—And you, Rosamund? Would that please you as well? Then it will please me also….
Not would please him, but will. And she realized that her sire’s blessing must have already been obtained, or else he would never have asked her. She had barely been consulted. And he was about to ask her again, in front of the entire court. In front of Alexander.
—Alexander must learn he cannot have everything he wants.
Jürgen turned to her and held out his hand. “Milady Rosamund.”
Josselin handed her over to him, bowed and stepped back. Jürgen smiled and kissed her hand.
—Consider well the consequences of your actions even when great passion moves you.
“Milady, you have graced us all with your beauty, charm and wisdom; you have done good service to me and to your queen as her ambassador to my court; and you have never failed to give me good advice, even when I was not inclined to listen.”
His words were still formal in tone, but she remembered that he had himself called his proposal an alliance of state, not the joining of two lovers. Does he really love me? Or am I a prize and nothing more?
“Your advice and your wits have served my people and myself well in recent months during a time of great peril. Your dignity, grace and wisdom have held all this court in awe ever since your arrival. Indeed, you have long since demonstrated beyond all doubt that you are, by every measure possible, a princess already in all but name—I can think of no more pleasant or honorable duty than to rectify the last. Lady Rosamund, if you would so honor me, I would have you ever at my side, as my consort, and my queen, and let this night begin a new era of harmony and friendship between the Fiefs of the Black Cross and the Courts of Love in France.”
The hall was silent as a tomb, everyone waiting for her answer. She could feel a icy cold radiating from her left, feel the entire room chilling as the tension among both Cainite and mortal members of the court rose to the breaking point. She could sense Josselin’s sudden apprehension, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to die in her defense. And Jürgen… Jürgen waiting for the answer he expected, knowing exactly the stir he had created and relishing it, grimly proud to put Alexander in his place, not realizing he would die for it.
—Love isn’t just how you feel, Rosamund. It’s what you do.
“Your Highness, I cannot accept this honor you would do me,” she said as clearly and firmly as she could, doing her best to ignore the way the sudden pained comprehension in his eyes broke her heart in two. “I am flattered that you believe me worthy of such an elevation, and I thank you for your kin
dness. But I have other obligations that I must fulfill, duties to milord Alexander and his own long-delayed quest to retake his rightful throne in Paris, and those duties must take precedence over anything else.”
“Of course, milady,” Jürgen said, coolly. Now the source of the chill had shifted from off to her left to right in front of her, but elsewhere in the room she could all but hear the tension among the witnesses dissipating like an errant fog.
“But if I may make any claim to your Highness’s favor, in light of the events of the past few months, there is a boon I would ask instead of this great honor that I cannot accept….”
It was her right, and he knew it, especially after he’d been so lavish with her praise. Jürgen nodded, though the warmth in his eyes had turned icy blue. “Ask it, milady, and we shall take it under consideration.”
“Milord Alexander is an experienced general and leader of men into battle, yet here his skills are wasted, and he grows restless, waiting for the night to come when he may return to Paris in triumph. I ask, your Highness, that he be permitted to command your troops in Livonia. Let him test his strength against the barbarian warlord in your service. Let him prove himself your ally and worthy of your support.”
Jürgen considered. Rosamund found herself chewing her lower lip again, a habit Isouda had never managed to break her of, and forced herself to stop. This was the quest she had hoped Alexander would accept, the boon she had planned to ask for, although Jürgen’s own move in court had forced her hand in a way she had not intended.
“Milord Alexander,” Jürgen said finally, acknowledging the elder’s presence in his court. “Is this your wish as well, to lead troops against Qarakh and his barbarian tribes?”
It was a delicate insult, to infer she might have spoken without Alexander’s express permission, but she ignored that, and turned to favor Alexander with her most charming smile.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 27
