“It may be more if you will accept me. I am not like most men, and what I can do will not prepare you for marriage,” he said; he found it difficult to speak, and he could not keep from thinking of the many conflicts he had: what would Imbolya think of his true nature? What if he disgusted or disappointed her? If she enjoyed him, how would she behave when she was summoned to her wedding? What would happen to them both if they were found out? What if she proved as demanding and capricious as Rozsa?
“Comes?” She spoke a bit more loudly. “Comes, what is it?”
“Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “I am sure you have questions you want to put to me; I am trying to decide how to answer.”
“I haven’t asked anything yet,” she said almost playfully, “beyond what I’ve asked you already.”
“And that is what concerns me,” he told her, his voice mellifluous and soothing as he picked his way through his qualms. “I am deeply obliged to you for … for offering me your favor, but I believe you are not fully aware of what you could bring upon yourself … You have told me what you seek. You may have … expectations of me, or hopes that—”
“So you’ve warned me. I am not troubled by the strange, or those things the Church dreads, if that is your concern, and you—” she cut in, and would have said more but there was a rap on the door, and the latch lifted.
“Come,” said Rakoczy, remaining where he was.
Barnon entered first, a large, brass tray in his hands that held a jug of hot wine, an alabaster cup, and a large plate with an array of fruit-and-honey tarts laid out upon it. He carried this to the low table and set it down; Hruther came after him with two large branches of burning candles in his hands. Both men ducked their heads to Imbolya and then to Rakoczy.
“One on the serving-table, I think,” said Rakoczy to Hruther in Bohemian, “and one on the trestle-table where the casket of jewels is kept.”
“It’s a pity the shutters have to be closed, though of course they must be with the snow and the wind,” Imbolya remarked, also in Bohemian, paying little attention to either Barnon or Hruther. “It makes everything so dark.”
“I will have paned glass put in place in spring, throughout the manse,” said Rakoczy. “Inside the shutters, of course, and with sections that can be opened, so the rooms will not be stifling in summer. I have placed an order with the Glassmakers’ Guild and provided the specifications for the windows so that they may assemble the panes and frames before spring, and the installations can begin with the first good weather and be finished by Mid-Summer Eve. The two large windows in the main hall are to have stained glass as well as clear, one showing the eclipse device of Rakoczy, the other showing the Tree of Four Seasons: buds and blossoms, fruit, yellow leaves, and bare branches.” It was one of the many things that was supposed to have been done to the manse before he arrived, and it was something he was sorry he had not had done in the summer. “The Master Glazier will supervise the whole project; he has engaged his Guild’s most experienced journeymen to do the work. He has pledged to have the windows ready by mid-April; I have promised a bonus if he and his Guild achieve that.”
“It sounds very elegant.” She looked at him expectantly and motioned Barnon to step back; Rakoczy realized that she expected him to pour the wine.
“How much would you like in your cup, Imbolya?” he asked.
“A good amount, if you would. The day is cold.” Her smile flashed but vanished in a frown of uncertainty; she was perturbed by the level of her response to him, as if he were north and she a magnet. Once again she turned her head so that no one could see her burning cheeks or hear the sound of her heart beating.
Rakoczy took the jug and poured out enough to fill the cup almost full. “Tell me if it suits your taste.”
Hruther went from the trestle-table to the low one, lighting all the candles, then ducked his head. “Do you need anything more, my master?” He spoke in Imperial Latin.
“Not just at present,” he answered, and added in Bohemian, “Thank you both. You need not linger here. I will escort my guest to her carriage when she is done making her selection. Given the occasions and the youth of the Konige’s daughters, it may take us some time to decide which stones are most appropriate.”
Barnon bowed his head; Hruther nodded, and without saying anything, they left Rakoczy and Imbolya alone.
“Are you certain your servants are reliable?” she asked in Magyar before she sipped the wine.
“I trust they are, within their lights; they do their work and report to those who require it. But I have complete faith in my bondsman, who has been with me a long time and has shown himself discreet and loyal.” That he had found Hruther in the half-built Flavian Circus twelve hundred years before he kept to himself.
“Within their lights,” she mused. “Of course they make reports. You have spies among them. Probably more than one.”
“It is to be expected.”
“Alas,” she agreed, and drank more. “This is very good.”
“So I understand,” he said,
She took one of the tarts and bit into it, holding it so the crust crumbs would not fall on her clothing. “I am to have a new bleihaut of velvet for my Epiphany gift, and Venetian solers.”
“From the Konige?” Rakoczy ventured.
“From my father. He will also buy my wedding clothes and give me three sets of clothing for my personal dowry. He has said he will provide for my garments and bedding for five years as part of the settlements. Konige Kunigunde has said she will give me a carriage and horses when I marry.”
“And…”—he poured her more wine as he tried to frame a question that would not give offense—“is this to your liking?”
“That will depend upon whom I am to marry,” she said, and drank again; her cheeks grew more brightly flushed—which she hoped he would attribute to the hot wine—and she shrugged out of her mantel, letting it lie over the back of her chair and revealing a bleihaut of spruce-green wool over a chainse of heavy ivory silk. She could feel his eyes on her, and with the intention of appearing at ease, she reached up to loosen her hair from the artfully wound loose braid that lay under the silver-fretwork chaplet; the pale-brown cascade spread over her shoulders, with the waves from plaiting pressed into the strands.
“Do you know any of the men your father is considering?” He kept his tone level and his manner unflustered although he was caught up in her tentative abandon.
“He hasn’t given me any names, so I don’t know. He will inform me in good time so that I may prepare for … for my wedding.” She took another long sip and set the cup down. “It is a little like a calf being sold at market, isn’t it? The calf makes a good trade for the farmer, but who knows if the calf will be bound for the pasture or the kitchen.”
“Not a happy state for you,” he told her; he realized that her intelligence was too keen for her to be comforted by sophistries, so he said, “I hope your husband is a man who can appreciate you. I hope he is capable of you.”
“That’s an interesting turn of phrase: capable of me.” She thought it over. “Yes, I hope so, too, but it would be folly to expect it.”
He could not disagree with her. “Would you like another tart?”
“I would like you to show me the ways of loving,” she said, and before he could speak, added, “Don’t tell me I am too young, or it doesn’t matter, or that it is the Devil’s work to rouse a woman’s passions.” Her eyes shone with tears she would not let fall.
“I would not do any of those things,” he said, and bent to add another branch to the fire, troubled by the welling ardor she evoked in him. His own emotions answered hers and he knew he was captivated.
“My father thought at first that I was bound to be a nun, and pictured me like Hroswitha of Gandersheim, with a vast convent and as much power as a lord. He made donations to the Church to found a convent, but Konig Bela would not permit such a convent to be built, for he distrusts the Church, and wants money for war.” She looked up at him, her f
ace emotionless, her eyes forlorn. “So I will disappear into marriage, as women do.”
He went to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. “Do not despair, Imbolya.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t you despair, were you in my situation?” She shook her head. “I know what my duty is, and I will do it. I will marry the man my father chooses for me, and I will bear him children to ensure our House’s position, and I will feel so wasted. If God has chosen this path for me, why did He instill so many thoughts in my mind? Or did the Devil give them to me?”
“The thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours.” He saw her cross herself. “I know that Episcopus Fauvinel would call what I said heresy, but if that is so, then most of the souls on earth are heretics, which is unfortunate for Christians.” He paused. “In the lands of the Great Khan there are those who believe that it is the nature of humans to question, and that those who do not question their lives and their behavior are the heretics.” He thought back to Kuan Sun-Sze in Lo-Yang, not quite sixty years ago, who had brought him to the university and had sent him away as the forces of Temujin had stepped up their invasion; through Kuan, Rakoczy had studied the work of Kung Fu-Tse and Lao-Tsu, and the Buddha.
“Do they have convents?” Imbolya asked, her attempt at joking an utter failure.
“There are some, I understand, but I know little of their teaching,” he answered, remembering the Buddhist nuns he had seen in Tuan-Lien.
“They aren’t Christian,” she said sadly.
“No, they are not.” He could feel her pulse through his fingers and with it, her first trembling excitement; he started to remove his hand, but she laid her own upon it. “Imbolya…”
“I am not asking for much, Comes.” She touched his sleeve. “Will you refuse me the little I ask?”
“If it is what you truly want, and you understand that it will not last, that I cannot give you more than pleasure.” Inwardly he upbraided himself for succumbing to his esurience, but as she rose into his arms, he was captivated by the ardor within her, and her frail hope for a little joy. Their kiss deepened and her ardor became true passion.
“Comes,” she whispered triumphantly, and then their lips met again, hers eager, his explorative, and their hands touched as they leaned together; this was more than she had expected and her desire sharpened like lightning in her soul. Since she was almost a head shorter than he, she found the embrace more awkward than he did, and she ended up with her arms around his waist, canted against him, unaware that he was holding her securely, without effort.
When they broke a short way apart, he helped her to the rear of the room, to the low Persian divan that stood to the side of the athanor. “We will be more comfortable here, and the athanor is warm.”
“Then you will show me? What I want to learn?” she whispered in her excitement, leaving the wolf-skin mantel on the chair.
“As much as I can without putting you at risk,” he said.
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I will not do—I cannot do—the act that might give you a child,” he said, for like all the males of his blood, he was impotent, as the females were sterile. Two millennia ago that admission would have discomposed him, but he had long since become accustomed to his state though he knew that many women found this upsetting.
“Can you do that? Really?” She beamed at him. “I knew I was right to ask you. I knew you wouldn’t harm me.” An unfamiliar tingle was growing at the base of her spine, and her skin seemed to be more sensitive, as if it had been rubbed with a hair-cloth.
“I hope I would not, whatever I am capable of doing,” he said, reaching to loosen the lacing on her bleihaut. “But it is not safe to befriend me, and that may yet be troublesome for you.”
She turned so he could work her laces more easily, her pulse thrilling as she touched his arm. “The Konige speaks well of you. So long as she does, I can do the same.” With a hitching of her shoulders, she let her bleihaut drop to the floor. Standing now in her chainse, she smiled tentatively. “Shall I keep this on?”
“If you like,” he said.
“What do you prefer?” she asked, trying to hide her nervousness with a coquettish smile.
He picked up her clothes from the floor and laid the garment on the end of the trestle-table. “It is your preferences that matter, Imbolya. If you are pleasured, then I am pleasured. If removing your chainse would add to your pleasure, then remove it. If you would derive more pleasure from having it on, then stay as you are.”
“For now, I will leave it on,” she decided, then as if she had exhausted all her will, she asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Sit down and be comfortable,” he said; in a remote part of his mind he found this exchange ironically amusing. “Do you want another cup of wine?”
She considered a moment. “Yes. If you don’t mind.” The flicker of anxiety made the request poignant.
“I will bring it to you, shall I?” He went and filled the alabaster cup, carrying it and the jug back to her. He set the jug next to her bleihaut on the end of the trestle-table, then handed the alabaster cup to her.
“What is in this?” she asked after she sipped.
“Wine, spices, and honey,” he said. “Cinnamon, cardamom, crushed nutmegs, and white pepper.”
“How luxurious,” she approved, and drank a little more before handing the cup back to him. She leaned on the bolster at the end of the divan. “What should I do now?”
“Choose a position that you find relaxing,” he said, going on one knee next to the divan; he could feel her anticipation in the tension of her muscles. “I will massage your hands and arms to help you reduce the strain you have.”
“All right,” she said dutifully, fussing to put herself at ease. “Shall I close my eyes?”
“If it will give you more comfort, then do.” He took her hand and began to massage the fingers, gently working them until they released their tightness; he started on her palm, his thumbs pressing the tension away. He moved to her arm, kneading her flesh through the sleeve of her chainse. When he reached her elbow, she lifted her head.
“I want to take this off,” she said, plucking at her chainse. “Your hands feel better directly on my skin.” She blushed as she said it, then sat up and pulled the garment off over her head, letting it drop to the floor next to Rakoczy; now all she wore was her breechclout.
Gooseflesh rose on Imbolya’s arms and torso, more from jittery nerves than chill. Any discomfort she might have felt vanished as he laid his hand on hers. She leaned back against the bolster. “There.” She held out her left arm to him. “Do you want to go on?”
“As long as you do,” he said, and took her wrist in his hands. He did not hurry his efforts, taking his time to give her the greatest opportunity to surrender her edginess. Finally, as he finished working on her right arm, the quivering tension in her back began to fade, and he changed from kneading her body to caressing it. He made his way from her shoulders to her small, high breasts; he cupped them, teasing her nipples with his fingers, and, when she had finally achieved a welcome transport and her body became responsive to his hands and lips, pliant and apolaustic.
“How do you know to do these things?” she whispered.
“Do you like them?”
She made a giggling sigh. “Oh, yes.”
“Then I will continue to do them.”
“Should I take off my breechclout?” She felt wonderfully brazen just asking the question; she held her breath, waiting for his answer.
“It would be more satisfying if you do.” As soon as she unfastened and removed her breechclout, he moved down her body to the hidden cleft at the base of her hips; Imbolya breathed more quickly, a flush spreading over her face and neck and gradually extending onto her chest. When he fingered the soft folds open, Imbolya shivered; her eyes were half-closed. While he teased her little bud into stiffness, she twitched with every flick of his hands and tongue, her body growing taut once more. Slowly he slid a
finger into her and felt a preparatory contraction of muscles; he shifted his position so that he was half-lying beside her. The second time he entered her, he used two fingers, and she was caught up in a spasm of elation; he drew her close, his lips on her throat, and shared the waves of rapture that coursed through her.
When she could speak again, she said, “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me—it is I who should thank you,” he said, keeping her in the haven of his arms.
“I could lie here all afternoon, and through the night, and you could tell me tales as captivating as the tales of the troubadours so I could forget what lies ahead,” she murmured, and then shook her head regretfully. “But I must choose jewels and return to Vaclav Castle before your servants start gossiping, or my escort.” She stretched up and kissed him. “Later, we must find a time to do this again, and do it longer.”
“If it is possible,” he said, moving back so they could both sit up.
“How do you mean?” She reached for her breechclout and pulled it on, securing the ties at her waist, all bashfulness gone.
“This was an unexpected opportunity, one neither of us can assume will come again.” He handed her chainse to her. “What are you going to do with your hair? Do you want a comb?” There was one in the red-lacquer chest that stood against the wall.
“There’s no need. I’ll tie it in a knot, use the chaplet to hold it in place under my hood.” She gave him a clever smile. “No one will think it odd that I take my hair down after being out in blowing snow. They will see that my hair is wet.”
“But it is not,” he said.
“It will be.” She grabbed her chaplet and worked it around the efficient knot she made of her hair. “And with my hood up, who will notice?”
He did not share her confidence, but he kept this to himself, the gratification of their intimacy still heartening him. “Be careful when you do,” he recommended.
She smoothed the chainse and got off the divan to take her bleihaut from the end of the trestle-table. “It was wonderful of you to do this for me, Comes. Even if we do nothing more, I will be grateful to you always.” Before she got into her bleihaut, she stopped to regard him one more time. “What will become of us? Will we be damned, do you think?”
Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 19
