‘You’ve fulfilled your vows?’
‘Fortune shone on me! For you ought to know that I made my vows, and not just any vows, but on a flying crane. In the spring. I vowed to fell fifteen marauders before Yule. I was lucky; I’m now free of my vows. Now I can drink and eat beef. Aha, I don’t have to conceal my name. I am, if you will, Reynart de Bois-Fresnes.’
‘It’s our pleasure.’
‘Regarding those balls,’ said Angoulême, urging her horse on to catch up with them. ‘I hope platter and goblet won’t pass us by either? And I’d also love to shake a leg!’
‘’Pon my word, there’ll be everything at Beauclair,’ Reynart de Bois-Fresnes assured them. ‘Balls, feasts, banquets, revels and poetry evenings. You’re friends of Dandelion’s, for heaven’s sake . . . Of Viscount Julian’s, I meant to say. And the Lady Duchess is most fond of the latter.’
‘I’ll say! He was bragging about it,’ said Angoulême. ‘What was the truth about that love? Do you know the story, sir knight? Do tell!’
‘Angoulême,’ said the Witcher, ‘do you have to know?’
‘I don’t. But I want to! Don’t whinge, Geralt. And stop being sullen, for at the sight of your mush, roadside mushrooms pickle. And you, sir knight, say on.’
Other knights errant riding at the head of the procession were singing a knightly refrain with a repeating chorus. The words of the song were quite unbelievably foolish.
‘It occurred these six summers past,’ began the knight. ‘The poet tarried with us all winter and spring, he played his lute, sang romances and declaimed poetry. Duke Raymund was actually staying in Cintra, at a council. He didn’t hurry home, it was no secret he had a paramour in Cintra. And the Duchess and Lord Dandelion . . . Ha, Beauclair is strange indeed and spellbinding, full of amatory enchantment . . . You shall see for yourselves. As the Duchess and Lord Dandelion learned then. They noticed not, from verse to verse, from word to word, from compliment to compliment, posies, glances, sighs . . . To put it briefly: both came to an intimate understanding.’
‘How intimate?’ chortled Angoulême.
‘One was not an eye witness,’ said the knight coolly. ‘And it is not seemly to repeat rumours. Besides, as my good lady undoubtedly knows, love has many faces, and it is a most relative thing how intimate was the understanding.’
Cahir snorted softly. Angoulême had nothing to add.
‘The Duchess and Lord Dandelion,’ continued Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, ‘trysted in secret some two months from Belleteyn to the summer Solstice. But they disregarded caution. News got out, evil rumours began to spread. Lord Dandelion, without hesitating, mounted his horse and rode away. He acted prudently, as it turned out. For as soon as Duke Raymund returned from Cintra, an accommodating serving lad informed him of everything. As soon as the duke found out what an insult he had suffered and how he had been cuckolded, he was seized by yellow bile, as you may imagine. He overturned a tureen of broth on the table, cleft the informer lad with a hatchet, and uttered scabrous words. He then punched the marshal’s face and smashed a great Koviran looking glass before witnesses. Then he imprisoned the duchess in her chambers and, having threatened her with torture, extracted everything from her. At which point he sent after Lord Dandelion, ordered him put to death without clemency and his heart torn from his breast. For, having read something similar in an ancient ballad, he meant to fry his heart and force Duchess Anarietta to eat it in front of the entire court. Uurgh, what an abomination! Luckily, Lord Dandelion managed to flee.’
‘Indeed. And the duke died?’
‘He did. The incident, as I said, caused him great ill humour. His blood became so heated from it that apoplexy and palsy seized him. He lay like a plank for nigh on a year. But recovered. Even began to walk. Only he winked one eye, ceaselessly, like this.’
The knight turned around in the saddle, squinted his eye and screwed up his face like a monkey.
‘Although the duke had always been an incurable fornicator and stallion,’ he continued a moment later, ‘that winking made him even more pericolosus in love-making, for every dame thought he was winking at her out of fondness and giving her amorous signs. And dames are most covetous of such homage. I in no way impute that they are all wanton and dissolute, by no means, but the duke, as I said, winked much, almost endlessly, so on the whole he got what was coming to him. His cup ran over in his frolics and one night he was struck again by the apoplexy. He gave up the ghost. In his bedchamber.’
‘Atop a dame?’ guffawed Angoulême.
‘In truth . . .’ The knight, until then deadly serious, smiled under his whiskers. ‘In truth beneath one. The details are unimportant.’
‘Verily,’ nodded Cahir seriously. ‘Duke Raymund wasn’t greatly mourned, was he? During the tale I had the impression—’
‘That you were fonder of the inconstant wife than the betrayed husband,’ the vampire interrupted in mid-sentence. ‘Perhaps for the reason that she now reigns?’
‘That is one reason,’ replied Reynart de Bois-Fresnes disarmingly frankly. ‘But not the only one. For Duke Raymund, may the earth lie lightly on him, was such a good-for-nothing rogue and, excuse my language, whoreson, that he would have given the very Devil stomach ulcers in half a year. And he reigned for seven years in Toussaint. While everyone adored and adores Duchess Anarietta.’
‘May I then venture,’ said the Witcher tartly, ‘that Duke Raymund didn’t leave many inconsolable friends who were ready to waylay Dandelion with daggers?’
‘You may.’ The knight glanced at him and his eyes were quick and intelligent. ‘And, ’pon my word, you won’t be wide of the mark. I said, did I not? Lady Anarietta dotes on the poet and everyone here would walk through fire for Lady Anarietta.’
The good knight returned
To find he’d been spurned
His love had not tarried
But swiftly been married
A chevalier’s woe!
With a hey, nonny, no!
Crows, disturbed by the knights’ singing, took flight, cawing, from the roadside thicket.
They soon rode out of the trees straight into a valley among hills on which the white towers of small castles were framed strikingly against the sky, which was coloured with dark blue streaks. Wherever they looked the gentle hillsides were covered with neat avenues of evenly trimmed bushes like columns of soldiers. The ground was carpeted with red and gold leaves.
‘What is it?’ asked Angoulême. ‘Vines?’
‘Grapevines, yes,’ said Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, ‘They’re the famed valleys of Sansretour. The finest wines of the world are pressed from the grapes that mellow here.’
‘’Tis true,’ agreed Regis, who as usual was an expert on everything. ‘The crux is the volcanic earth and the microclimate here which ensures every year a simply ideal combination of sunny and rainy days. If we add traditions, expertise and the utmost care of the vinedressers, it yields a result in the form of a product of the highest class and distinction.’
‘Well said,’ the knight smiled. ‘Distinction indeed. Look over there, say, at the hillside below that castle. Here the castle gives the distinction to the vineyard and the cellars deep beneath it. That one is called Castel Ravello, and from its vineyards come such wines as Erveluce, Fiorano, Pomino and the celebrated Est Est. You must have heard of it. One pays the same for a keg of Est Est as for ten kegs of wine from Cidaris or the Nilfgaardian vineyards by the Alba. And there, look, as far as the eyes can see, other castles and other vineyards, and the names are surely no strangers to you either. Vermentino, Toricella, Casteldaccia, Tufo, Sancerre, Nuragus, Coronata, and finally Corvo Bianco – Gwyn Cerbin in the elven tongue. I trust the names are familiar to you?’
‘They are, ugh.’ Angoulême contorted her face. ‘Particularly by learning the hard way to check if some rascal of an innkeeper hadn’t poured us one of those famous wines by chance instead of the usual cider, because then you might have to leave your horse with him, so costly Castel
or Est Est. Yuck. I don’t understand, it might be quality gear to those great lords, but we, ordinary folk, can get plastered just as well on the cheap stuff. And I’ll tell you this, because I’ve experienced it: you puke after Est Est just the same as you do after scrumpy.’
*
‘Caring not for Angoulême’s vulgar October jests,’ Reynart leaned back from the table, his belt loosened, ‘today we drink a fine label and a fine vintage, Witcher. We can afford it, we’ve made some money. We can revel.’
‘That’s right,’ Geralt beckoned to the innkeeper. ‘After all, as Dandelion says, perhaps there are other motivations for earning money, but I just don’t know any. So let’s eat whatever’s behind those appetising smells wafting from the kitchen. Incidentally, it’s extremely crowded in The Pheasantry today, though the hour’s quite late.’
‘Why, it’s Yuletide Eve,’ explained the innkeeper, overhearing him. ‘Folk are wassailing. Making merry. Telling fortunes. As tradition demands, and tradition here—’
‘I know,’ interrupted the Witcher. ‘And what did tradition demand from the kitchen today?’
‘Cold tongue with horseradish. Capon broth with brain meatballs. Beef roulade served with dumplings and cabbage . . .’
‘Keep it coming, good fellow. And to accompany it . . . What should we drink with it, Reynart?’
‘If it’s beef,’ said the knight after a moment’s thought, ‘then red Côte-de-Blessure. And the vintage? It was the year old Duchess Caroberta turned up her toes.’
‘That’s the year,’ the innkeeper nodded. ‘At your service, sire.’
A mistletoe wreath, clumsily thrown behind her by a wench from the next table, almost fell into Geralt’s lap. The wench’s companions whooped with laughter. And she blushed prettily.
‘You’re out of luck!’ The knight picked up the wreath and threw it back. ‘He won’t be your future husband. He’s spoken for, noble maiden. He’s already been ensnared by a pair of green orbs—‘
‘Be quiet, Reynart.’
The innkeeper brought the order. They ate and drank in silence, listening to the revellers’ merriment.
‘Yule,’ said Geralt, putting down his cup. ‘Midinvaerne. The winter solstice. I’ve been hanging around here for two months. Two wasted months!’
‘One month,’ Reynart corrected him coolly and soberly. ‘If you’ve lost anything, it’s but a month. Then the snows covered up the mountain passes and you couldn’t have left Toussaint, no matter what. You’ve waited until Yule, so you’ll surely wait till spring too. It’s force majeure, thus your grief and sorrow are in vain. While as far as your sorrow goes, don’t overdo the pretence. For I don’t believe you regret it that much.’
‘Oh, what do you know, Reynart? What do you know?’
‘Not much,’ agreed the knight, pouring the wine. ‘Not much more than what I see. And I saw your first encounter; yours and hers. In Beauclair. Do you remember the Feast of the Vat? The white knickers?’
Geralt did not reply. He remembered.
‘A charming place, Beauclair Palace, full of amatory enchantment,’ muttered Reynart, savouring the wine’s bouquet. ‘The very sight is bewitching. I recall how you were all dumbstruck when you saw it in October. What was the expression Cahir used then? Let me think.’
*
‘An elegant little castle,’ Cahir said in admiration. ‘Well I’ll be, an elegant and pleasing little castle, indeed.’
‘The duchess lives well,’ said the vampire. ‘You have to admit it.’
‘Fucking nice gaff,’ added Angoulême.
‘Beauclair Palace,’ repeated Reynart de Bois-Fresnes proudly. ‘An elven edifice, only slightly modified. Allegedly by Faramond himself.’
‘Not allegedly,’ objected Regis. ‘Beyond any doubt. Faramond’s style is apparent at first glance. It suffices to look at those small towers.’
The slender white obelisks of the red-roofed towers referred to by the vampire soared into the sky, rising up from the castle’s delicate construction which grew wider towards the ground. The sight evoked the image of candles with festoons of wax flowing over the intricately carved base of a candlestick.
‘The town spreads out at the foot of Beauclair,’ explained Sir Reynart. ‘The walls, naturally, were added later. After all, as you know, elves don’t wall their towns. Spur on your horses, noble comrades. We have a long road ahead of us. Beauclair only seems close, but the mountains distort perspective.’
‘Let us ride on.’
They rode swiftly, overtaking wanderers and goliards, wagons and carts loaded with dark, seemingly mouldy grapes. Then there were the town’s busy narrow streets, smelling of fermenting grape juice, then a gloomy park full of poplars, yews, barberries and boxwood. Then there were rose beds, mainly containing multiflora and centifolia. And further still there were the carved columns, portals and archivolts of the palace, liveried servants and flunkeys.
The man who greeted them was Dandelion, coiffured and arrayed like a prince.
*
‘Where’s Milva?’
‘She’s well, don’t worry. You’ll find her in the chambers that have been prepared for you. She doesn’t want to leave them.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll find out later. Now follow me. The duchess awaits.’
‘In our travelling things?’
‘Such were her wishes.’
The hall they entered was full of people, dressed as colourfully as birds of paradise. Geralt did not have time to look around. Dandelion shoved him towards a marble staircase, beside which were two women who stood out from the crowd, being assisted by pages and courtiers.
It was quiet, but it became even quieter.
The first woman had a pointed, turned-up nose, and her blue eyes were piercing and seemed a little feverish. Her chestnut hair was pinned up into an elaborately, truly artistic coiffure, supported by velvet ribbons, complete down to the tiniest nuances, including an unerringly geometric, sickle-shaped curl on her forehead. The upper part of her dress had a plunging neckline shimmering with a thousand blue and lilac stripes on a black background. The skirt was black, densely strewn with tiny, gold chrysanthemums in a regular pattern. The neckline and décolletage – something like a complicated scaffolding or cage – held captive in its intricate coils a necklace of lacquer, obsidian, emeralds and lapis lazuli ending in a jade cross which almost plunged between her small breasts, which were supported by a close-fitting bodice. The diamond-shaped neckline was large and plunging, baring the woman’s delicate shoulders, and seemed not to offer adequate support – Geralt was expecting the dress to slide from her bust at any moment. But it didn’t and was held in its proper place by the mysterious arcana of dressmaking and the buffers of puffed sleeves.
The second woman equalled the first in height. She was wearing the same lipstick. And there the similarities ended. This woman wore a net cap on her short, black hair, which metamorphosed at the front into a veil extending to the tip of her petite nose. The veil’s floral motif didn’t mask her beautiful, sparkling eyes set off by green eye-shadow. An identical floral veil covered the modest décolletage of her long-sleeved black dress, which in several places was scattered with an apparently random pattern of sapphires, aquamarines, rock crystals and gold openwork stars.
‘Her Enlightened Ladyship Duchess Anna Henrietta,’ someone whispered behind Geralt’s back. ‘Kneel, sire.’
I wonder which of the two, thought Geralt, bending his painful knee clumsily into a ceremonial bow. Both look just as bloody highborn. Not to say regal.
‘Arise, Sir Geralt,’ said the one with the intricate chestnut coiffure and pointed nose, dispelling his doubts. ‘We welcome you and your friends to Beauclair Palace in the Duchy of Toussaint. We are delighted to be able to offer lodging to people on such a noble mission. People, furthermore, being bonded in friendship with Viscount Julian, who is so dear to our heart.’
Dandelion bowed deeply and vigorously.
‘The
viscount,’ continued the duchess, ‘has disclosed your names to us, revealed the nature of your expedition, and said what brings you to Toussaint. The tale touched our heart. We shall be glad to converse with you at a private audience, Sir Geralt. That matter must, however, be somewhat postponed, since state duties make their demands upon us. The grape harvest is over and tradition demands our participation in the Festival of the Vat.’
The other woman, the one in the veil, leaned over towards the duchess and quickly whispered something. Anna Henrietta looked at the Witcher, smiled, and licked her lips.
‘It is our will,’ she raised her voice, ‘that Geralt of Rivia shall serve us in the Vat alongside Viscount Julian.’
A murmur ran through the group of courtiers and knights like the whisper of pines struck by the wind. Duchess Anarietta shot the Witcher another smouldering glance and left the hall with her companion and a retinue of pages.
‘By thunder,’ whispered the Chequered Knight. ‘I’ll be damned! Quite some honour has befallen you, Witcher, sir.’
‘I don’t quite understand what this is about,’ Geralt admitted. ‘In what way am I to serve Her Highness?’
‘Her Grace,’ broke in a portly gentleman with the appearance of a confectioner, approaching. ‘Forgive me, sire, for correcting you, but in the given circumstances I must do so. We greatly respect tradition and protocol here in Toussaint. I am Sebastian Le Goff, Chamberlain and Marshal of the Court.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Lady Anna Henrietta’s official and protocolary title—’ the chamberlain not only looked like a confectioner but even smelt of icing ‘—is “Her Enlightened Ladyship”. Her unofficial one is “Her Grace”. Her familiar one, beyond the court, is “Lady Duchess”. But one should always address her as “Your Grace”.’
‘Thank you, I shall remember. And the other woman? How should I entitle her?’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 159
