‘Thankfully. Then the prince died?’
‘He died. The incident, as I was told, brought his blood to the boil, it is said that he had apoplexy and became paralyzed. He lay for nearly half a year like a log. But then he was fine. He stood on his feet again and walked. But with squinty eyes, like…’
The Knight turned in his saddle, screwed up his eyes and grimaced like a monkey.
‘While Prince Rajmund,’ he continued, ‘had always been renowned as a womanizer, with the squint, he became even greater at fornicating, because every woman was thinking that he was winking in a sign of love for her. And quite a few females enjoyed the prince’s attention. I am not saying that all the weaker sex in Toussaint are greedy with loose morals, but as the prince winked almost eternally, the majority of those women came out on top. But in the end trying to keep up with all this mischief, one night the apoplexy stuck him again. He breathed his last. In the bedroom.’
‘On top of a girl?’ laughed Angouleme.
‘Indeed,’ the normal serious Knight, smiled behind his moustache. ‘In truth he was beneath her. But there is no need to go into details.’
‘It stands to reason that you do not,’ Cahir said seriously. ‘Though I think there wasn’t a lot of mourning for Prince Rajmund? During your story I got the impression…’
‘That the unfaithful wife will be more loved that the cheating husband,’ interrupted the vampire in his usual way. ‘Which is perhaps why she rules now?’
‘That is one reason why,’ Reynart Boris-de Fresnes answered with a disarming sincerity. ‘But not only that. Prince Rajmund, to put it mildly, was dishonest, a villain, and forgive me, a motherfucker, that would cause the devil himself an ulcer in six months. And Toussaint suffered under his rule for seven years. But Duchess Anarietta is adored by the people.’
‘So we do not have to worry,’ Geralt asked sourly, ‘that the deceased Prince Rajmund left anyone who would honor him by putting a dagger into our friend, Dandelion?’
‘You do not have to worry,’ the Knight looked at him understandingly. ‘On my honor, nothing will happen to him. As I told you, Our Lady is devoted to the poet and Anarietta would make mincemeat out of anyone who tried to harm him.’
The good knight returns,
When the war is over,
Not expecting his beloved,
Has now been married,
Hey, ho, ho,
That’s the knight’s fate.
Alarmed by the knights singing, a flock of screaming crows took flight from the trees lining the roadside.
Soon they left the forest into a wide valley between the hills, on which the towers of a palace shone white against the blue sky. As far as the eye could see, the gentle hills were covered in neatly trimmed hedges and bushes. The ground beneath the bushes was lined with red and yellow leaves.
‘What is that?’ Angouleme asked. ‘Grapevines?’
‘Grapevines,’ confirmed Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘The famous valley of Sansretour. The world’s most excellent wine is made from the grapes that grow here.’
‘True,’ said Regis, who as usual, knew everything. ‘Due to the volcanic soil here and the local microclimate that provides the ideal amount of sunny days with annual precipitation. If we add to this tradition the knowledge and care from the workers of the vineyard, the resulting product is a superior quality brand.’
‘Well put,’ the Knight smiled. ‘Quality and brand. Oh, look, for example, on the slopes below the palace, in this region we give names to the wines and vineyards. This is called the Castel Ravello and its wines come from vineyards such as Erveluce, the Fiorano, the famous Pomino and Est Est. Surely you have heard of it. A barrel of Est Est wine is tenfold as much as you would pay for a barrel from the Cidaris vineyard of Alba. And there, oh, look, you can see other castles and vineyards, but the names will probably be too foreign to you – Vermentino, Toricella, Casteldaccia, Tufo, Sancerre, Nuragus, Coronata and finally Corvo Bianco, which the elves call, Gwyn Cerbin. I take it these names are foreign to you?’
‘Foreign, ha!’ said Angouleme. ‘You especially need the knowledge so that a rogue innkeeper does not pour one of these wines and not ordinary plonk, otherwise more than once I would have had to leave my horse as a pledge, of what Est Est wine would cost. This stuff might be great for lords, but we the ordinary people, the cheaper the better. And I can tell you this for I’ve experienced both – puking is the same whether you’ve had Est Est wine or cheap wine.’
‘Don’t judge us on our cheap wines, Angouleme,’ Reynart said, sitting at a bench behind a table. ‘We’ll bring you a quality brand and a good year. We can afford to, we’ve earned it. We can treat ourselves to our heart’s content.’
‘Of course,’ Geralt said, waving to the innkeeper. ‘Dandelion sometimes says that there are other motivations for making money, but can never recall what. I want to taste what is making those tempting smells from the kitchen. Anyway, I did not expect at this late hour, Pheasantry would have this many guests.’
‘But today is the feast of Yule,’ said the innkeeper, who had heard his words. ‘People are celebrating. Having fun. Having fortunes read. According to tradition…’
‘I know,’ the witcher interrupted. ‘And in the kitchen, what tradition are you preparing today?’
‘Smoked tongue and horseradish. Capon broth with meatballs. Roast meat, dumplings and sauerkraut…’
‘Bring it quickly, my good man. And for… What do we ask for, Reynart?’
‘With meat,’ thought the Knight, ‘We’ll have a red Cote de Blessure. The year that the old Countess Karoberta kicked the bucket.’
‘A wonderful choice,’ the innkeeper nodded. ‘At your service, gentlemen.’
A spring of mistletoe thrown over the shoulder of one of the girl at a neighboring table fell into Geralt’s lap. The celebrating company laughed and the girl blushed prettily.
‘None of that,’ the Knight threw the spring back. ‘This is not your chosen one. He is already busy, gracious lady. He is already captivated by certain green eyes…’
‘Shut up, Reynart!’
The innkeeper brought the ordered food and drink, and then they ate and drank in silence, watching the surrounding festivities.
‘Yule,’ Geralt said thoughtfully, placing his cup on the table. ‘Midinvaerne. The winter solstice. I’m stuck here for two months. Two months lost.’
‘One month,’ Reynart corrected him soberly. ‘If you lose anything, then it is only one month. The snow will cover the mountain passes and you will not be able to leave Toussaint. You will have to stay here during Yule and probably until spring, because it will be in vain to waste tears on force majeure. In any case, do not go overboard with the sadness and grief. I do not believe that they are sorry for you.’
‘What do you know, Reynart? What do you know?’
‘Not much,’ replied the Knight, pouring. ‘Not much more than what I see. And I saw your first meeting, you and her. In Beauclair. Remember the festival of the vat? The white underwear?’
Geralt did not answer. Remembering.
‘Our castle in Beauclair is magical, its charms act powerfully on people,’ muttered Reynart, sipping wine and rolling it over his tongue. ‘The view alone is able to charm. I remember how you gasped when you saw it, in October. Cahir show us what expression he used then.’
‘A spectacular castle,’ Cahir said with admiration. ‘On my soul, it is admirable and pleasing to the eye.’
‘A pretty place your Duchess lives,’ said Regis. ‘This has to be our stop.’
‘A fucking nice place,’ Angouleme added.
‘Palace Beauclair,’ Reynart Bois-de Fresnes said proudly. ‘An Elvish building only slightly modified and redesigned. Apparently by Faramond himself.’
‘No doubt,’ said the vampire. ‘There is no doubt the Faramond style is evident at first glance. Just look at those towers.’
The towers, slender, white obelisks, that Regis pointed to, rose high above the
red roofs to the sky. At first sight they resembled candles, with wax cascading down to the masterfully decorated base.
‘At the foot of Beauclair,’ the Knight Reynart explained, ‘lies the city. The wall, of course, was added later, after all, elves do not build walls around a city. Spur your horses, gentlemen, we still have a long way to go. Beauclair looks close, but the mountains throw off perspective.’
‘Let’s go.’
On the way to the city they overtook carts and wagons, lots of carts and wagons – all full of grapes. They entered the noisy and grape scented streets of a city park after dark, full of poplar, yew and barberry. They passed roses, mostly multiflora varieties and centifolia. Finally they stood before the carved columns and portals of the palace, were stood soldiers and footmen in livery.
Among those that greeted them was Dandelion, combed and dress like a prince.
‘Where is Milva?’
‘It’s okay, don’t worry. She is sitting in the chambers, which were prepared for you, and does not want to move from there.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ll talk about that later. Now come, the Duchess is waiting.’
‘Right now?’
‘That was her wish.’
The hall into which they entered was full of people as colorful as birds of paradise. Geralt did not have time to look around, because Dandelion pushed him towards a marble dais on which stood two women, significantly differing from the surrounding society.
It was quiet, but it grew quieter.
The first of the women had a sharp, slightly raised nose and penetrating blue eyes that seemed feverish. Her auburn hair was adjusted in a perfect and truly artistic style, tied with silk ribbons and submitted to the last detail – including flawless crescent curls on her forehead. The bodice of her dress was cut deep and interwoven with pale blue and iridescent purple stripes on a black background, with a dense and regular design of small embroidered gold chrysanthemums. Her neck was adorned with a mesh of extremely complex goldsmith’s work – a necklace of emeralds, onyx and lapis lazuli, the lowermost edge was completed with a jade cross, located between her breasts, bound by the tight bodice. It seemed that the fragile shoulders of the woman would not generate sufficient support for her broad and deep cleavage, and that at any moment her breast might slip out. However, they remained in place, kept in position by the secret mysteries of dressmaking and the buffers of puffy sleeves.
Her companion was more or less the same height and had lipstick on her lips the same color. But that’s where the similarity of the two women ended. The other wore her hair cropped short in a lace cap trimmed with a muslin veil reaching to the tip of her nose. The flower motif of the veil could not conceal her large lustrous eyes, highlighted with green shadow. The same floral veil covered a very modest neckline of a black dress with long sleeves. The dress was seemingly randomly decorated with gold stars embroidered with tiny cut aquamarines and mountain crystals.
‘Her ladyship, the Duchess Anna Henrietta. Kneel, Sir,’ said someone, whispering behind Geralt.
I wonder which one, thought Geralt, who with effort bent his sore knee in a ceremonial bow. I’ll be damned if they both don’t look royal.
‘Arise, Sir Geralt,’ the lady with the auburn hair and slightly raised nose, dispelled his doubts. ‘I welcome you to Castle Beauclair in the Principality of Toussaint. I am delighted to be able to host those who are carrying out such a noble mission. Moreover, you’ve also been a friend to our dear Viscount Julian.’
At these words Dandelion bowed deeply.
‘The Viscount,’ continued the Duchess, ‘has revealed to me your names and the reason and purpose of your mission, and told me what brings you to Toussaint. His story touched my heart. I am going to give you a private audience, Sir Geralt. It will have to be delayed a small while, as I am saddled with state requirements. The harvest is complete and tradition requires our participation in the feast of the vat.’
The woman in the veil at the Duchess’s side leaned forward and whispered something quickly. Anna Henrietta looked at the witcher, smiled and licked her lips.
‘It is my desire,’ she raised her voice, ‘that during the festival alongside Viscount Julian, Geralt of Rivia will serve us.’
A murmur swept through the group of courtiers and knights, like the rustling of wind through the pines. The Duchess Anarietta gave the witcher one last glance and left the room with her companion and retinue of pages.
‘Damn,’ said the Chessboard Knight. ‘That is a surprise. You have received a great honor, Sir Geralt.’
‘I’m not too clear what it was,’ said Geralt. ‘How should I serve Her Grace?’
‘Her Belovedness,’ corrected a nobleman with the appearance of a confectioner. ‘I’m sorry, sir, to correct you, but I have to meet obligations. We, in Toussaint, adhere to tradition and protocol. I am Sebastian Le Goff, chamberlain and marshal of the palace.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘The official title of Lady Anna Henrietta,’ said the chamberlain, who not only looked like a confectioner, but even smelled like icing, ‘is “Your Enlightenedness” and unofficially “Lady Duchess” for outside of court. But you should always address her as “Your Belovedness”.
‘Thank you, I’ll remember that. And the other lady? How do I title her?’
‘Her official title is “venerable”’ the chamberlain instructed him seriously. ‘But it is possible to address her as “ma’am”. She is a relative of the Duchess, called Fringilla Vigo. According to the will of Her Belovedness, it is Lady Fringilla that you will serve at the festival.’
‘And what is involved with this service?’
‘Nothing complicated. Let me tell you, long ago we used mechanical presses for grapes, but the tradition…’
The courtyard resounded with the hum and trills of pipes, flutes and the fierce clatter of drums and tambourines. On stage, in the middle of the courtyard stood a huge vat, in which jugglers and acrobats jumped around doing flips and somersaults. The courtyard and the galleries were crowded with spectators – ladies, nobles, knights, burgesses, merchants and common people.
Sebastian Le Goff lifted a staff entwined with vies and tapped it three times on the pavement.
‘Ho, ho!’ he called. ‘Noble ladies and gentlemen, knights, people!’
‘Ho, ho!’ replied the crowd.
‘Ho, ho! This is an ancient custom! Let the vines thrive! Ho, ho! Let the sun ripen them!’
‘Ho, ho! Let them ripen!’
‘Ho, ho! Let them ferment! Let them take strength and flavor from the barrels! Let it change into wine! Let it flow into our cups and raise them to the honor of our majesty, the beautiful ladies, brave knights and industrious winemakers!’
‘Ho, ho! Cheers!’
‘Let them Beauties come forward!’
From a damask tent on the opposite side of the courtyard stood two women – Duchess Anna Henrietta and her dark-haired companion. Both were shrouded in long scarlet cloaks.
‘Let the young come forward!’
The “young” were instructed in advance what to do. Dandelion went to the Duchess and Geralt stepped out to meet the dark-haired companion, which he knew as Fringilla Vigo.
Both women dropped their cloaks and the crowd rose in a thunderous ovation. Geralt swallowed.
The women were wearing sleeveless white shirts made of thin spiderweb like fabric, which did not even reach to their thighs. And lacy panties. And nothing more. Not even jewellery. And they walked barefoot.
Geralt offered Fringilla his arm, she willingly embraced him around the neck. She smelled of roses and amber. Her body was warm and soft.
The women were brought to the vat, Geralt with Fringilla and the Duchess with Dandelion and helped to stand up in the grape juice. The crowd roared.
‘Ho, ho!’
Anarietta and Fringilla stood facing each other and laid their hands on each other’s shoulders to more easily maintain balance among the grapes, whic
h rose to above their knees. Juice spat and sprayed. The women spun around inside the vat and laughed like kids. Fringilla shot the witcher a playful wink.
‘Ho, ho!’ shouted the audience. ‘Let then ferment!’
Juice flowed and bubbled about the calves of the females.
The chamberlain struck his staff on the pavement. Geralt and Dandelion approached and help the women get out of the vat. Geralt saw Anarietta nibble on the troubadour’s ear when he lifted her in his arms. Her eyes glittered dangerously. He himself felt Fringilla’s lips brush his cheek, but could not swear whether by accident or intentionally. The strong smell of wine, hit him in the head. Fringilla stood on the stage and wrapped herself in a scarlet cloak. The brunette squeezed his hand strongly.
‘These old traditions,’ she said, ‘can be exciting, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, witcher.’
‘The pleasure is all mine.’
‘Not all of it, I assure you.’
‘Pour, Reynart,’
The company at the next table performed a more festive divination – throwing a chain of peeled apple skins and guessing their future partners from the letter it resembled. Even though practically every throw produced the letter “S”, they continued to throw.
The knight poured.
‘Milva, it turns out,’ said the witcher, lost in thought, ‘is healthy, though she still wears a bandage around her ribs. But she is sitting in her room refusing to exit because she does not want to wear a bloody dress. It seemed that the conflict was going to break protocol, but the
situation was calmed by the omniscient, Regis. Citing a hundred precedents forced the Chamberlain to bring her some male clothes. Angouleme was happy for a change to get rid of her pants and riding boots. After some soap, a comb and a dress she resembles a pretty girl. All of us seem to be in a better mood after a bath and clean clothes. Even me. I was in a fairly good mood when we went to the audience…’
Lady of the Lake Page 7
