Revenge of the Rose

by Nicole Galland

  “He is concerned only for your safety, milady,” the minstrel answered neutrally. “Think of all the scrawny itinerant musicians who would prick your honor, given the chance.”

  Lienor fidgeted with her wreath of rosebuds. “He’s overcautious. I would have more freedom in the cellar of an abbey.”

  “Come now, milady,” Jouglet cooed. “He is a man of great indulgence. I offer my own friendship with him as proof.”

  Lienor rolled her eyes and sighed dismissively. “It’s different for you, you’re a man.” Her eyes ran over the lean young body and she added, giggling, “Well…very nearly.”

  Boyish Jouglet, although used to such jabs, looked affronted nonetheless. “What does milady mean, very nearly? Must I prove myself yet again? I beg the lady to assign me a task only a great hero could achieve, and I’ll demonstrate that I am worthy of your feminine regard.” But they smiled at each other; this was an old game between them.

  “Very well, you lowly knight errant,” Lienor recited, feigning disdain. She gestured grandly toward the manor gate. “Travel the earth for ten years and bring me back…” She glanced at her pale hands a moment. “Bring me back a magic ring that will make me queen of all I survey.”

  “Your happiness is my Holy Grail, milady,” Jouglet announced, with an absurd level of gravity, and bowed deeply.

  “Is it?” Lienor scolded. “I have been waiting three years already, you might at least have slain a dragon for me by now. But I am so gracious and undemanding, I shall be content with a magic ring.”

  “It is as good as done, milady. And when I return I hope I shall be granted the honor of resting upon your delicate pink bosom.”

  “My bosom is white,” Lienor said, mock-petulant.

  Jouglet grinned wickedly. “Not once I get through with it.”

  Lienor giggled; her mother, Maria, standing watchfully a few paces away, clicked her tongue disapprovingly but said nothing. Maria had come, over the course of three years of Jouglet’s unannounced visits, to trust the fiddler with almost unimpeded access to the entire household; even if Jouglet could have claimed the brute masculine strengths that might endanger a young lady’s purity— and Jouglet couldn’t— Lienor would have been impervious.

  Willem stepped out of the musty shade of the stable. He squinted in the bright light, a hooded falcon tethered on his wrist. Willem was a handsome man, his gentle demeanor belied by the crooked nose that was evidence of too many fights. He saw his sister and their guest at their usual banter and smiled despite himself. Their behavior was appalling, but he was too fond of each of them to chastise effectively. Although the musician made it this far west infrequently, there was no one outside his family to whom Willem felt so close. In a world where he had learned he could trust almost nobody, he trusted Jouglet, intuitively and entirely.

  Willem was followed out of the stable by the groom, who led three saddled horses. Together they passed a wooden tub of soaking walnuts, the rabbit-tortured herb garden, and the little wooden chapel, before stopping in front of the hall steps.

  At the top of the steps, Lienor clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, this will be such a treat! And such a change in our domestic philosophy,” she added, pointedly. “Surely you’ve noticed, Willem prefers that I am not the hunter but the prey— of rich men in search of a mate.”

  Jouglet loomed over her and crooned suggestively, in a husky tenor voice, “Do you blame the rich men? If I were a rich man, I’d try to mate you.”

  Lienor looked delighted by the declaration; Willem said, “Behave yourself, fellow,” but only because he knew he ought to.

  “Yes, you’ll never be able to marry me off if word gets around that I’ve been cozying up to some migrant musician,” said Lienor, smiling. She and Jouglet descended the steps together, white hand resting on tanned one.

  “I’m only trying to help, friend,” Jouglet assured Willem. “I’ve been trained to cozy up at the highest courts in Europe. How do you expect her to learn feminine wiles if she never has a wooer to practice flirting with?”

  “Wooers are one thing she needs fear no lack of,” Willem said with a patient smile. “It’s the sort of wooers we get that are the problem.”

  “Anyhow it surely doesn’t count as flirting when the wooer’s voice has hardly changed,” Lienor teased.

  Before Jouglet could protest, Willem said, “Careful, Lienor, I asked him the other week over chess whether he might be a eunuch and he nearly gave me a bloody nose.”

  “And then you gave me a black eye,” Jouglet reminded him, sounding inexplicably delighted.

  “And then you gave me a kneeing I should have hanged you for.”

  “Well, at least we know you’re not a eunuch,” Jouglet pointed out, slapping Willem on the shoulder.

  The falcon made a mewling sound, sensing Jouglet’s nearness; the musician drew away. With a sweetly coquettish attitude, Lienor took her horse’s tasseled reins from the groom. “Jouglet, have you hunted before? You seem to be scared of falcons. How amusing.”

  “Lienor, don’t be rude,” said Willem.

  “It is my lady’s courtly way of showing affection, so the barbs are as caresses to me,” Jouglet said smoothly, and was rewarded by Lienor’s smile. The groom held out the reins to a second mount, a chubby chestnut, and Jouglet took them with a wary glance at the horse’s enormous head.

  “Wait until we have Lienor up and then my groom will help you,” Willem offered kindly, trying not to sound condescending.

  Jouglet looked so relieved that Willem, not for the first time, silently questioned the wisdom of taking his friend on this hawking trip. He was accustomed to being cajoled by his sister into dubious ventures— she had a history of getting into them herself, for all her demure posturing. And he had become used to it with Jouglet, who’d been his sister’s ally (and wooer) throughout their friendship. And so they were going hawking, although not three weeks before he’d vowed no more such outings. That vow had been made the day when, against all Willem’s best instincts, they’d convinced him to let them both tag along to a training session for some of the knights and squires stationed at the fortress in Dole. Lienor had merely been sunburned, and eventually repulsed by the excessive violence that her presence inspired. Jouglet, however, had jumped impulsively into a boxing ring with some of the older boys and briefly made a good showing— but ended up with bruised ribs and two black eyes, and was immobile for three days from the pain.

  When Lienor and her brother were both mounted, the groom turned to help Jouglet. The fat chestnut stamped a rear hoof, started a little, and lifted its head to listen to something far outside the gate. Then with its midriff inflating, it whinnied long and loud into the afternoon breeze. Jouglet leapt back. The other horses’ ears pricked up, and Willem’s horse, Atlas, let loose too, to be answered by a similar neighing out in the hills.

  The siblings exchanged knowing glances and announced in one voice, with amused resignation, “Erec.”

  Then Lienor whispered, “Let’s slip out the river gate and have mother tell him we are away for the day.”

  Willem frowned and shifted the hawk to his other arm a moment, stretching his shoulder. “That is rude and deceitful, Lienor.”

  “From what I’ve heard of Erec, I don’t blame her,” Jouglet said. “Your irrepressible cousin, correct? Your little squire?”

  Willem was surprised. “Have you two never actually met? In three years? Yes, he’s the infamous cousin. And squire.” He grinned. “He’s also your rival for the lady’s hand.”

  Lienor craned her neck to see around Willem and smiled down at Jouglet. “No he’s not,” she assured the minstrel.

  “If he’s your squire, he has to do what you tell him, so just send him away,” Jouglet suggested breezily.

  Willem wondered how much he would have to explain; he did not like to talk about this, even to a close confidant. “He was training as my squire, but he has just unexpectedly become my lord— “

  “Your lord?” Joug
let echoed. “Your lord is Alphonse, Count of Burgundy, you are not subservient to some lesser— “

  Lienor pursed her lips; Willem flushed, but his expression did not change, and he ignored Jouglet’s interjection. “Erec is younger than I am, younger even than Lienor, barely seventeen. But he’s got an uncanny way with horses, and he’s been an excellent squire, which pleased the family— knighthood is a good calling for a second son— “

  “— but then his father and older brother both met their Maker in the same week, and suddenly he is lord of a sizable estate,” Lienor concluded.

  “But he’s not your lord?” Jouglet pursued, looking confused. “You’re your own man, aren’t you? Besides homage to the king and count, of course.”

  The siblings exchanged unreadable glances; the small falcon, sensing her master’s unease, mewled briefly, and Willem was glad of the excuse to coo calmingly at it rather than answer the question.

  Jouglet gestured helpfully to the grand homestead around them. “What is this?”

  “Uncle Raimond’s charity— or now, his son Erec’s,” Lienor said, without a trace of self-pity. Wanting a return to levity, she cackled, rubbing her soft pale hands together around the leather reins. “The bait to lure fat little husbands into our diabolical web of poverty.”

  Willem shook his head at her with affectionate disapproval. “It’s not quite so dire, Lienor.” And to Jouglet: “Our father was killed a month before her birth, and he had made no provisions for her.”

  “And men want heiresses,” Jouglet concluded, understanding.

  Willem nodded. “Although we receive offers from those who would never consider such a poor girl if she were not so charming.”

  Lienor’s smile was somehow both bashful and proud; it was just the sort of smile that might make one the most beautiful woman in Burgundy. “I never receive them when you’re visiting, Jouglet, since you’re much more satisfying company. But they do bring remarkable gifts. I have more jewelry and dress gowns than— “

  “Yes, but most of them would just take you for a mistress,” Willem said tersely. “And we’ve no idea what to do about poor Erec. He’s a good lad, really, but he’s still adjusting to his sudden acquisition of lordship. It makes him buffoonish sometimes, especially toward Lienor— “

  At that moment the gate swung open, and they turned grudgingly to receive the visitor.

  Erec was close enough in kin to resemble each of the siblings: like Lienor he was fair-haired; like Willem he had a soldier’s build. But there similarities ceased.

  Erec’s face was aflame with the imbalances of late-adolescent humors, and he carried himself with a reckless intensity that Jouglet found alarming. He was dressed as if for a feast day— a bright silk tunic, long pointy poulaines on his feet— although it was an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon and they were, moreover, in the middle of nowhere. Behind him, three dusty, stumbling serfs, sweating profusely in the warm moist air, pulled an enormous dusty clay vat on a dusty wheeled platform.

  “Good day, cousins!” he cried out as he came through the wooden gate and steered his mount— a well-bred charger in extravagant gear— toward them. He spoke in the family’s native Burgundian. In a smooth arc of movement, clearly intended to visually thrill the lady, he dismounted and fell into a sweeping bow beside Willem’s Atlas. “My lord,” he intoned, then stood and spun around to face Lienor and dropped to his knees on the dry packed dirt. At his signal, his horse did likewise. “My lovely lady,” he addressed her, or rather her breasts. Lienor, physically affected by the intensity of his ogling, held a protective hand against her chest.

  “Please get up,” said Willem calmly. “Your groveling is unattractive and inappropriate.”

  “But I’m your squire,” Erec protested, twisting to look over his shoulder at Willem without actually rising from his knees.

  “And now you are my lord,” Willem said, tired and resentful of having to repeat this so frequently. Jouglet, realizing that Erec liked hearing Willem repeat it, decided at that moment to dislike Erec profoundly. “And we’ve discussed the awkwardness of this, milord,” Willem continued. “It requires that you go elsewhere for the remainder of your training.”

  “But cousin,” Erec pleaded, the grandness of his delivery deflating. He obediently got up from his knees. His horse followed suit, and he gave it an approving swat on the shoulder. “You’re the best knight in the county, I want to be your squire. Your training is the best and your home is the fairest one to pass the time in.” He smiled, apparently content that the matter was now resolved. “That reminds me, I’ve brought the mistress of the house a trifle.” He gestured for the perspiring peasants to wheel their burden closer.

  “How kind of you, I’m sure the mistress will be delighted,” Lienor said graciously. She looked toward the house, where her mother hovered still at the doorway. “Look, Mother! Erec has trundled you a large vat of something that’s attracting flies as an expression of his regard!”

  Erec shook his head. “I meant you, milady. No insult intended, Aunt!” he called out with hollow heartiness to Maria. She remained silent.

  “We thank you for the gift. May I ask what you have brought us?” Willem queried and protectively edged Atlas between Erec and his sister’s horse.

  Erec took a wide step sideways, to again address Lienor’s breasts directly. “I have brought the beautiful lady a little honey,” he announced, resuming his grandiose manner. All of them were startled by the enormity of the gift. “So that she might have some sweetness in her current earthly privations. But all the honey in the world is not as sweet as her fair visage,” he concluded with what he seemed to consider great artfulness.

  Jouglet snickered quietly, and Erec spun around, glaring. He was not tall for his breeding, and although Erec was burlier, the two were of a height.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Your cousins’ boon companion,” Jouglet said, with an exaggerated bow.

  Erec looked disgusted. “How can a vagabond make such a claim on persons of gentle birth? Explain your rudeness, clod.”

  “That insult would be more effective in German, you know,” Jouglet said, in German. “I assume milord speaks the emperor’s language, and that these ersatz trappings are not just a bad disguise for provincial coarseness?”

  Erec hesitated, frowning, then switched to German. “Do you know the value of a vat of honey that size?” he demanded, with an atrocious accent.

  “A hell of a lot for someone newly risen to lordship, milord,” Jouglet observed.

  “All the more opulent the gesture, then. Are you so well-endowed with riches that you can offer something better?”

  “I have been told I’m well-endowed, but why do you treat me as your competition when neither of us may ever have her?” asked Jouglet calmly. “You are manufacturing a conflict where none exists, milord.”

  “Then why do you seek to discredit me with your snide reaction?” Erec demanded. He flicked his teeth with his thumb in Jouglet’s direction.

  “Erec!” Willem and Lienor scolded in the same voice at the extraordinarily rude gesture.

  Jouglet blinked and looked suspiciously sincere, bowing very low. “Milord, I would never dream of discrediting you, but I would be honored to correct your misunderstanding of the one thing in this world on which I am an expert.”

  “You’re not old enough to be expert at anything,” Erec scoffed uncomfortably. “You don’t look like your balls have even dropped.”

  “I was known as a child prodigy,” Jouglet said evenly. “I am now known, variously and sometimes inaccurately, as a jongleur, a minstrel, a minnesinger, and a troubadour. I make my living, in part, singing of romance and of courtly love. You abase both yourself and your beloved when you practice these so clumsily.”

  Erec blushed but was too curious and eager to deny it. “And what have I done wrong?” he demanded.

  Jouglet’s tone of voice was diffident. “To begin with, of course, you would do better to choose a
woman of greater, not lesser, rank than yourself. And married, preferably, but whomever you set your sights upon, you must court her with utter discretion and secrecy, never letting another man even know her name. Trundling a honey vat the size of Flanders in front of her brother’s nose hardly counts as discretion.” The musical voice stayed diffident. “You should dress to please her fancy, not your pride. This“— a gesture taking in Jouglet’s own simple fawn tunic— “is far more to her liking. You should never mock or insult anyone, as such behavior would be ugly to her. Further, I must point out the object of the game is not to impress upon her guardian, be it husband or brother, that you are much better off than he is…yet your gesture is clearly intended, first and foremost, to have that affect upon my gracious host and friend, Willem Silvan of Dole. That is not just bad wooing, it is bad manners.”

  Willem, who agreed with this assessment, stared fiercely into Atlas’s mane, grateful but chagrined that his friend had called Erec to task in a way he never would have.

  “I don’t— ” Erec began.

  “Excuse me, but interrupting the jongleur is in extremely poor taste as well,” Jouglet said, pressing on, still diffident and polite. “Never done in the better households. I speak only for your edification. Finally, of course, the point of courtly wooing is not to sully the loved one by imposing your lust upon her, but rather to discipline yourself, and raise your own spiritual worth by worshiping her selflessly with no real expectation of physical satisfaction. The fair blond virgin before us is so entrancing, and you are clearly so extremely virile, that I cannot blame you for lusting after her, but you should not try to buy her compliance with a tub of insect vomit.”

  Willem could barely keep a straight face, and Lienor didn’t even try to as Erec took a threatening step toward the minstrel and said hotly, “Do not speak to me that way!”

  Jouglet looked profoundly apologetic. “Forgive me, milord, for accusing you of virility. I am sure I was mistaken.”

  “Who are you, you…Hungarian?” the young man demanded furiously, advancing again.