‘Twas not far from the table where Wolfram was seated, though he had to crane his neck to see the woman he wished to see to the exclusion of all others. When the remainder of Guichard’s party joined them, Wolfram deliberately slid to the very end of the bench to make room, that he might have the closest possible proximity to the lutenist.
No awareness had she of his presence, and once again Wolfram felt the voyeur. She settled in place and tuned her lute with a concentration that left one believing she was aware of naught else in the hall.
A fanfare sounded, and all rose to their feet as conversation came to an abrupt halt. Wolfram was quick to understand what was transpiring and joined the company afore any tardiness could show his unfamiliarity with such matters. The king himself swept into the hall in attire so resplendent as to put all others’ garb to shame.
Philip strode to the center of the table at the front of the hall and gazed over the gathering with no small measure of satisfaction. His retinue followed him and fanned out silently on his either side. He seated himself at the head table with a flourish so innate ‘twas beyond training, and lifted his gaze expectantly.
His guests seated themselves hastily and a muted hum of conversation resumed. The king’s cupbearer brought to him the first draft of wine, the house steward sprinkled the fine dust of what Wolfram guessed was reputedly ground unicorn horn into the chalice.
Wolfram glanced down to the table to hide his scorn at the futility of the practice. Naught he had seen could detect a poison of his making, though to no one could he reveal his pride in that fact. Let the king believe what he would. Should the commission have been granted, Wolfram could even have engineered his demise.
Unicorn horn. Just as in his dream.
The very thought sent Wolfram’s gaze slipping to the lutenist, who watched the proceedings with bright green eyes, her lute evidently primed for her performance. Pages slipped through the ranks of the gathered guests, filling each chalice, glass and cup with red wine. Once again, Wolfram was aware of his omission.
“Have you no service?” The whisper in his ear sent color rising over his neck.
“Inadvertently forgotten ‘twas,” he murmured with embarrassment. The page tut-tutted, but a snap of his fingers brought another with an unembellished pewter cup remarkably similar to Wolfram’s own.
“Have you a spoon?” the page demanded archly. Wolfram was compelled to shake his head.
“Naught but my knife,” he confessed. The page inhaled sharply in disapproval and sent the other scurrying for spoon, bowl and linen.
He spared Wolfram a cold look evidently reserved for buffoons who inexplicably found themselves hosted at the king’s own board. That the truth was no less only made the unspoken accusation more cutting. Wolfram grasped his filled cup and sipped gratefully of the wine, his gaze slipping, seemingly of its own accord, to the lutenist once more.
Still she sat patiently and, though she observed the goings-on of the court with some interest, ‘twas clear she had yet to spy him. Wolfram was not quite certain whether he wished she would do so or not.
Fetching she was, to be sure, and his heart contracted at the sweetness of her bowed and ruddy lips. Lips he had tasted, not once but twice. Suddenly it seemed the hall was significantly warmer than it had been when they arrived.
The lutenist but blinked once when one of the king’s retinue snapped his fingers in the musicians’ direction. Her red-haired companion whispered something to her that made her nod nervously, then rose to his feet. His movement recalled Wolfram to both his senses and his task, and he leaned forward slightly, intent on hearing what that man might say.
Another fanfare clapped the man’s mouth closed when Wolfram thought he might have begun. A procession came from the kitchens on that trumpet’s cue, the entire retinue led by a beaming, portly man whom Wolfram assumed to be the cook himself. That man ushered in a pair of helpmates bearing a platter on which a roast boar reposed. The savory smell of the meat was fit to tempt the hunger of any man.
The boar was followed by another, then a hind, seven pheasants, three swans, a positive flock of chickens. Custards and blanquemangers, beans in butter, eels in cream sauce, the variety of food was astonishing to Wolfram. Indeed, he had thought himself well fed at the Temple to rely upon meat thrice a week and wine daily. When he traveled about, ‘twas evident that most were lucky to see meat once a week, bread and cheese daily comprising most of their diet, yet here there was little else.
Platters were passed down the tables once the king had partaken of a particular dish. Thick trenchers of bread were sliced and placed before each guest, and meat was heaped thereupon. As the passing of food sparked a general mumble of conversation, fingers were snapped once again at the musicians and the red-haired man opened his mouth again.
The lutenist struck a chord that melted everything within Wolfram and the food before him was forgotten. Indeed, he was hard-pressed to attend the verse at all, so disarmed was he by the enchanting sounds of her lute. Overwhelmed was he by the unfamiliar extravagance of the setting, and well it seemed the music took advantage of his vulnerability. It slipped through the chinks in his facade and wound its way around his heart with a dexterity that left him breathless.
Indeed, it seemed she played solely for him. That realization alone prompted Wolfram to recall another who had played solely for him. One whom he had loved with all his heart and soul.
One whom he had lost.
One whom he could not afford to forget. Yet neither could he risk unleashing whatever the recollection of her might bring. He resolutely closed his mind and gritted his teeth as he glared at his loaded trencher.
When the red-haired man began to sing, the clarity and resonance of his voice was surprising. For one who looked to have lived a hard life, there was a sweetness there that Wolfram would not have expected. Truly, his talent was not small.
* * *
“A tale would I recount to you, a tale of fidelity and bravery, a tale of love gained and lost, a tale of one knight who rose above the temptations of this earth to capture paradise for his own,” Odo sang as Genevieve plucked an accompanying tune from her lute. Never would she have expected that to play in the king’s court was his intent. Despite her annoyance with him and her fear that she might miss Wolfram’s return, Genevieve had to acknowledge a grudging admiration for Odo’s ability to gain his desire.
Would that she were better at fulfilling her own oath.
“‘Tis the tale of one Parzival I would share with you,” Odo continued. “‘Twas long ago, yet not so far away, that this tale first drew breath, and I would bid all to heed its simple message. Though indeed this knight’s path was less than true, still he gained that great reward that not a few among us might seek. An intent truth had he, when all was said and done, and like unto a ruby set in base brass, the setting of his deeds cannot steal from the beauty of the pure stone of his heart. Well might there be lessons within the telling to light the path for many another, and I humbly present my own poor representation of his tale for that alone.”
The court was rich beyond Genevieve’s experience, and she permitted her mind to wander as Odo sang. In truth, she supposed she was fortunate to catch a glimpse of this life, but still she chafed with impatience to return to her square.
“And so it was that Parzival, knighted as he had desired, set out in search of his own fortune.
“He found adventure, as you might imagine, and rather more quickly than even he might have hoped. Soon he came to a fortress on the coast so beleaguered by troops that no ship had been able to put into port. The people were starving, yet Parzival’s offer to grant them aid if they but admitted him gained him their meager hospitality.
“Not the least of these people was their queen, and Parzival lost his heart when first he saw her. Even as gaunt as she was, her beauty shone forth for all to see. Virtuous she was, noble and gracious, and ‘twas clear to Parzival that she was not only as pure as a maiden should be, but true of
heart, such that her people adored her.
“That night the queen came to Parzival in no more than a silk shift and tears on her cheeks. He could not bear to see her so unhappy and begged she tell him her tale of woe. Condwiramirs was her name, and she alone held sway over the territories of her sire. She lay with Parzival, chastely I might add for those of you plagued by lecherous thoughts, and confided in him.
“Well it seemed that one Clamide saw fit to assault her fortress and swore to do so until the lady wed him or sent a knight who won a duel against him. No wish had Condwiramirs to wed Clamide, for he was said to be cruel, yet every champion she sent against him left not the field alive. Her subjects were suffering for her choice, yet ‘twas their resolve alone that she not grant herself to the cruelty of Clamide that gave her strength to continue. Her determination was faltering at last, though, and she admitted to Parzival her deepest fear.
“Parzival took the lady in his arms and swore to her that he would ride to joust with Clamide on the morrow. Reassured then by his promise, she slept nestled in his arms, and Parzival fancied ‘twas the first time she had slept so peacefully in many a moon.
“Neither will I plague you with the long tale of their duel, for Parzival, good to his word, rode out at dawn, yet did not return before the sun pushed its face into the sky again. All the day and all the night these two knights did battle, and the duel was not easily won. Yet ‘twas Parzival who eventually rode from the field victorious, to the cheers of the lady’s subjects and the happy tears of the lady herself.
“And on that next day, by some divinely ordained coincidence, a pair of ships rode into the harbor, their sails white against the sky and their holds laden with foodstuffs. Enough there was for all to eat their fill, and in that happy moment, the queen Condwiramirs took Parzival as her spouse, her lord and king. Such a celebration then ensued, the like of which I cannot begin to describe to you. Suffice it to say that the couple were happy, they reigned with great justice and their lands prospered.”
Here Genevieve thought that Odo would surely be finished, and she began to wind up her tune, only to earn a frown from her companion. He raised his voice again and she stifled a sigh, wishing he would be quick about his chanson.
Well it seemed that Odo intended to make his moment of glory stretch on as long as possible, regardless of Genevieve’s desires to the contrary.
She wondered if Wolfram had already visited the square and thought her gone.
“Then, one day, Parzival chose to leave his wife for a time to visit his mother and seek his fortune again. He was young enough and yet naive enough to not appreciate fully the gifts that had come so readily to his hand.”
Something about the minstrel’s manner when he uttered these lines captured Genevieve’s attention. She glanced up, well aware of the weight of another’s gaze, and was astounded to meet the calm silver regard of Wolfram.
Her breath caught in her throat. Genevieve blinked in disbelief, yet still he remained, garbed simply as always, yet inexplicably taking a meal here in the king’s court.
What was he doing here? Even as she wondered, her pulse leapt to pound in her ears. They stared at each other for a long moment. Naught did his expression reveal to her and Genevieve finally could no longer bear to hold his regard. She bent over her lute again with a hammering heart, hoping she appeared as though she had forgotten his presence.
Her trembling fingers gave away the truth and Genevieve prayed that he could not see their shaking. Why was he here? What strange manner of coincidence could have brought Wolfram here on the very day that she played here, even without her having known so in advance? Well did that seem to defy the odds, especially as he was clearly not one of the courtiers commonly called to court.
Indeed, it could be no coincidence.
He must have followed them.
Rage tripped through Genevieve that Wolfram would have the audacity to pursue her in such a manner. Who did the man think he was? How dare he follow her? ‘Twas she who led this hunt, and no other! Genevieve’s fingers plucked the strings of her lute with a new savagery as anger rolled through her.
“Came Parzival to a fortress,” sang Odo, and Genevieve wished heartily that the cursed man would finish his chanson. “A fortress highly buttressed with curtain walls as smooth as the finest silk. And though he marveled at the workmanship of this chateau, still Parzival was bold enough to request admission and young enough to be unsurprised when ‘twas granted without delay. Indeed, the very lady of the fortress—Repanse de Schoye was her name—sent to him her own cloak to wear, yet he marveled naught at this, thinking it no less than his due.
“In due time, Parzival was taken before the lord of this noble fortress, one Anfortas, known to all and sundry—but not to Parzival—as the Fisher King. This man reposed on a divan of cloth of gold, and though ‘twas evident he was in great pain, Parzival asked no question of him, nor extended his sympathy. A great wonder was shown to him that night, but Parzival appreciated it naught, in his youthful ignorance. I cannot tell you enough of the folly of his error, for in the fortress of the Fisher King, Parzival was shown the True Grail.”
A rustle rippled over the guests in the king’s hall, and Wolfram was certain the mention of the Grail had prompted the curiosity of more than one. Not alone was he in listening anymore, and he pushed his trencher aside, intent on catching every word.
“After that night of merrymaking, and retiring late to a sumptuous room, Parzival awoke to find himself abandoned in a forest of barren thorns. Cold he was, for the air was chill, yet no branch could he break with which to kindle a flame to warm himself. He wandered aimlessly, aching in his heart, with neither steed nor squire to console him, let alone the warm hearth and hospitality of the Fisher King. Even the cloak of the Lady Repanse de Schoye had abandoned him, and he wondered if he had dreamed.
“Finally, he saw a flicker of light and hastened forward to find an old man hunched over a flame. Of no mind was the ancient one to share the heat until Parzival prostrated himself and begged for his compassion. Parzival’s lips were blue with the cold, and well it seemed the old man could not deny him once he saw that evidence. A deal they struck that Parzival should but listen to a tale, for he had naught else with which to pay for the old one’s hospitality.
“And so the aged man began the tale of one feckless fool, name of Parzival, who knew not the merit of what he had. Parzival’s eyes widened in surprise at this, but he had not revealed his identity and he dared not do so now, lest the man cease his tale.
“Well it seemed that this Parzival had the exceptional gift of having been called to serve the Grail itself, though he had proven himself unworthy of the task in word and deed. Thrice had he erred, and his errors were thus—he had failed to show sympathy for the wounded Fisher King or offer that man aid in any way, he had killed one of his own kin, through ignorance to be sure and with provocation, but Ither the Red Knight had been blood of his own blood nonetheless, and such a travesty could not be overlooked, and finally he had abandoned his mother and left her to die of grief while he sought his fortune.
“As you can well imagine, these revelations made Parzival’s head spin, yet the old man was not finished with his tale as yet. It seemed this Parzival of whom he had heard tell had had the good fortune to gain access to the fortress where the Grail itself was secreted, but had appreciated it not. So filled with vainglory and pride this Parzival was that his heart had not been open to the marvel laid before him.”
Genevieve’s ears pricked at the mention of the Grail, but she ignored the shiver of dread that tripped along her spine. ‘Twas but a fanciful tale Odo spun. Soon enough ‘twould end, and she could return to her square, tell Wolfram precisely what she thought of his underhanded pursuit and finish her task here in Paris. ‘Twould be easy to take her due with such anger rolling through her veins.
“For none other than Anfortas, the old man told, held possession of the Grail. This fool Parzival had been in the presence of the grea
test mystery of Christendom and seen it naught. The fortress Parzival had visited, the fortress known as Munsalvaesche, was the keep of the Grail.”
Munsalvaesche. Montsalvat. Genevieve stiffened but resolutely stared at her fingers. Odo could not know the truth. No one left alive knew the truth but she, Genevieve, was certain of it.
It could harm naught to let him continue his song. Why interrupt and draw attention to herself to no gain?
“Though Anfortas guarded the Grail, ‘twas his sister, Repanse de Schoye, alone that the Grail permitted to bear its weight.” Genevieve fired a quelling glance at Odo, the mention of “sister” coming too close to the truth for her taste. Odo blithely sang on. “And surrounded by Templars the Grail is, for it has summoned them to the task.
“Sworn to the preservation and protection of this great mystery are the Templars alone and, in exchange, its wisdom sustains them and grants them strength beyond any other. No small thing is this, the old man maintained, but there is yet more. The Templars guard the family of Anfortas, as well, a family name of Pereille, because the family of Anfortas alone is granted the responsibility of bearing the Grail. And marked are those within the family, marked with a curious birthmark in the shape of the cross itself.”
Genevieve gasped aloud to hear the truth spoken so boldly in the king’s own court, before hundreds of his courtiers. What manner of idiot was this Odo?
“Long have the family of the Grail kept its legacy bright, and the Grail sustains them beyond all else,” the minstrel asserted as he continued his chanson. “Without the slavery of peasants and laborers, their larder is full of divers foods beyond our imagining. Without the benedictions of clergy, their hearts are filled with a love of God beyond our belief.”
Had Wolfram not noted the absence of a peasantry at Montsalvat? When he heard the words, he realized there had been no clergy there, either. What had sustained those troops? His heart began to pound in his ears.
Could Alzeu’s claims have had some root in truth?
Unicorn Vengeance Page 12
