Over the course of the dinner— during which he drank more than usual, in a bootless effort to relax— Willem and his monarch made unexpected and singular impressions on each other. He expressed surprise that His Majesty, even in his youth, had never had a lady to worship by the rules of courtly love: the chaste, secret, and usually doomed adoration of a great lady one could never have, an adoration that compelled a man to relentless self-improvement in her honor, that compelled him to deeds of martial ferocity, spiritual generosity, and cultured sensitivity, that even compelled him, when given the choice between carnal satisfaction or poetry, to choose the poetry every time. Willem was openly disappointed that, in fact, nobody at court had such a lady.
“So at tournaments there are no knights carrying their lady’s favors?” he asked. He felt foolish for his curiosity about a subject that clearly meant little to the court.
“Oh, of course there are— kerchiefs and torn sleeves and all that rot,” Konrad said. “Usually the lady is the knight’s dowager great-aunt who is about to make her will, or the mother of the girl whose dowry he’s after.” Willem’s face fell, and the king chuckled suggestively. “You want a lady’s favor wrapped around your lance, is that it?”
Willem shrugged, not registering the double entendre. “Of course I’d like to earn that honor, but…I don’t know any ladies here.”
Konrad chuckled harder. “You can have Jouglet’s castoffs. Or we could simply have the seamstress make a pretty glove for you and you can invent yourself a lady. Then you don’t have to write bad poetry for anyone.”
Willem grimaced and tried to hide his disappointment. “Then there is truth to the rumor that chivalry is not valued in Germany as it is in France and Burgundy.”
“Of course it’s valued,” Konrad reassured him. “Any doctrine that tells armed men they are bettered by unflinching service and devotion to a superior is always valued in my court.”
Over the next ten dishes Willem was disabused— gently disabused, once Konrad saw how innocent he was— of most of his understandings about the courtly life. He learned how peculiar he was for refraining from bearing arms on Sundays. He learned how indulgent it was of him to consider the chivalric code of decent behavior as applying to the use of peasant women’s bodies— had not Andreas Capellanus himself advocated taking them by flattery and force? He learned he was naïve for fearing that traditional values such as honor and loyalty were lost by the increasing popularity of money in lieu of the stable interdependency of manor life. Konrad roared with laughter over that, trying to imagine what would happen to his empire if, for a single afternoon, he ruled as though loyalty were a stronger force than greed.
But however strange the emperor found Willem’s disposition on such matters, Konrad genuinely liked him for it. Though there were not two decades separating them, he felt almost paternal toward the young man; he was touched by Willem’s simplicity, and pleased to have found someone so artless who was yet skilled in the art of combat. Konrad had never thought much of Burgundians— (“They make pretty things, they pray well, but they’re dull for dinner conversation”)— and Willem was an unexpected delight. And so Konrad switched matters to more neutral ground— falconry, hunting, horsemanship. They discussed their mutual acquaintance the minstrel, and how uncannily each had felt, from the moment he’d met Jouglet (three years ago in Willem’s case, at least seven in Konrad’s), that they’d been friends a lifetime.
Paul, attempting as ever to insinuate himself into some conversation where he felt even marginally welcome, sarcastically suggested that such large, accomplished men as Konrad and Willem might square off to test each other’s mettle by trying, for example, to bash each other’s heads in. Willem took the cardinal seriously and begged off the idea, which tickled Konrad enough to want to try it out. He informed Willem that they would test their lances against each other’s next day outside the town walls. Willem was flustered and would have given up his helmet all over again to have had Jouglet in sight then. Afraid to contradict his sovereign, he agreed to it; he doubted he could win such a match, but then again, he was baffled as to whether he should even try to win it.
In late afternoon, he retrieved Atlas and his weapons from the stable in the lower courtyard and began the steep descent down the mountain, into the hilly vineyards, through the town gates, along the narrow, haphazard streets, and finally to the inn. He dismissed his servant from the room, sinking immediately onto the hard bed and letting out a sigh— more a groan— of psychic exhaustion.
“It’s easier once you are used to it,” promised Jouglet from the far corner.
Willem jumped, though he realized that he had somehow expected the minstrel to be there. “Come over here,” he ordered, and Jouglet did. Willem looked up at his friend wearily from the pillows. He seemed about to speak two or three times, then changed his mind and finally said, with a sigh, “I’m very glad to see you. Sup with me.”
* * *
4 July
In the slate-and-amber-dappled dawn, Imogen was smiling languidly in her sleep. She shifted closer to Marcus’s leanly muscled frame, to snuggle against him, and he thought, for the thousandth time in those four days, that his heart might shatter with happiness. That this girl— and she was barely more than a girl— would sprout such unquestioning and passionate affection for him, a man almost old enough to be her father, was to him miraculous proof of God’s work among mankind.
Or perhaps the devil’s. This was so stupidly dangerous, what they had done, what they were doing. He was not a stupid man, and he had always been by nature too cautious to truck with danger. And when he was thinking straight— which he obviously had not been doing— he was far too protective of Imogen’s well-being to forget himself.
Alphonse, Count of Burgundy, was a man whom nobody at court had ever liked, a second son without sons of his own, desperate to secure his immortality by marrying his daughter well. Suggesting Marcus had been a ploy of Konrad’s— Marcus had the greatest authority within the royal court after Konrad himself, but no pedigree and no independent power. He was Konrad’s creature, a childhood companion who through merit and favor had earned an extraordinary position of authority. He had agreed to the match because he did not have the right to refuse it, and anyhow, he always did whatever Konrad wanted. Imogen’s mother, Monique, who had known Marcus for a lifetime, saw no impropriety in his meeting with Imogen when first they were betrothed; in fact Monique had requested it, to put her daughter’s mind at ease that her intended was a gentleman.
He had seen her a few times in passing as a young girl, but when she walked into Konrad’s chamber in Hagenau the day of their actual introduction, her face lit by the setting sun, he did not recognize even a trace of the child, she had bloomed and grown so beautiful. She looked at him and put a hand to her throat, gasping slightly. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, in a soft voice bursting with relief. “I wasn’t sure which one Father was referring to. I’m so glad it’s you.” That was all it took. It was what Jouglet, in those ridiculous French romances, would have called a coup de foudre. There was no explaining it. They did not take their gazes from each other for the entire conversation, and later neither of them could remember what they spoke about. He could not wrest her voice and eyes from his mind, and with no evidence he knew, with absolute certainty, that she was just as distracted by thoughts of him. He initiated an exchange of letters, and within six months they had arranged— it was her idea— to find a way to be alone together now and then.
Why, he wondered now, why had they kept something that innocent a secret? There had been an adolescent gleefulness in the secrecy; Marcus, who had never felt gleeful in his own adolescence, was seduced by it. The first time, when they had each ridden for days to this sequestered spot, he had not lain a finger on her despite his relentlessly throbbing erection; they talked for two days, then he’d kissed her hand and they had separated. She’d written to him as soon as she returned home, explaining how she had felt in his presence, artlessly det
ailing what he recognized as feminine arousal, and from their second visit on they never kept their hands and mouths off each other.
Soon they would have to separate again. The tournament was coming up, and Konrad needed him for that. Four days was an eternity, and now that they were entirely lovers, it was an eternity of greater contentment than he had known the world could offer. But today was the last day. Until they were married. They would be married soon. Jouglet and Konrad had bullied Alphonse, and Alphonse, duly bullied, had said they would be married soon.
When Imogen stirred against him again, he stroked her cheek, beaming at her, and bent over to kiss her temple. Her hands, under the sheets, moved automatically toward his waist to pull herself closer to his warmth. There was a musky smell between them from three days of gentle but almost unrelenting fornication; it wafted up from the sheets when she moved and made him want to take her again.
But she looked so innocent and content as she slept; he only sighed instead and rested his cheek on her tousled dark hair. He supposed many men must claim to feel this way about their lovers, but he could not believe anybody felt as deeply as he did.
Half asleep, she rolled over and pushed the cool skin of her buttocks against his thighs, which made him almost instantaneously erect. And then in her soft, murmuring voice she whispered, half-yawning, “I like it when you take me this way. I like to feel you pushing against me on the inside and pushing against me on the outside at the same time.” She wiggled a little, pressing back against him; he groaned and laughed.
“I’ve created the perfect lover,” he whispered into the back of her neck, teasing.
“No,” she corrected him, smiling with her eyes closed as his whiskers tickled her. “A shameless whore.”
He sobered instantly and hovered over her, so that by turning her head toward him he could look straight down at her. “You are not a whore,” he said in a very serious voice. “You are a lady. I will never let you be known as anything else.”
* * *
7 July
Go into the attack,” Willem called out patiently as Erec stepped back from his opponent. Like the squires he was training, Willem had stripped down to his breeches; the rolling field outside the fief of Orschwiller was full of sweaty, bare-chested youths in the hot afternoon sun. “Meet him.”
Jouglet, lazing supine on the reddish dirt at the edge of the training area, suggested helpfully, “Pretend it’s a woman.”
“Ah!” Erec said with exaggerated heartiness, as if this made it all clear. “Sweetheart!” He threw down his sword theatrically into the dusty soil and leapt forward, pelvis foremost, with arms wide open toward his fellow squire, a smaller boy in service to the Duke of Franconia. The younger boy stared at Erec, not certain how to respond. He hefted his blade straight up, as if entertaining thoughts of swinging it.
“Dammit, Erec!” Willem shouted angrily. He turned to the boy. “Put up, Georges! He’s unarmed. Never strike an unarmed opponent, even if he deserves it, which this stupid child does. And don’t encourage him with laughter, Jouglet,” he ordered, turning on the minstrel, who instantly went stone-faced.
Unrepentant, Erec picked up his sword and muttered, loudly, “We’ve been at this since sext bells, and it’s after nones, certainly we’ve earned a break by now.” He wiped his pimpled forehead with the whole length of his sunburnt arm.
Willem took a step toward him and raised his voice. “You don’t earn breaks in battle, Erec! And Saracens are used to fighting in much harsher climates than ours. What will you say when you find yourself exhausted in the desert someday facing a scimitar? ‘Excuse me, Milord Saracen, but I’m fatigued, shall we pause for refreshment?’” The other squires exchanged looks and chuckled, nervously, glad the sarcasm was not directed at them. “For the love of God, I’d die of shame to have one of my men behave that way. No wonder Lienor doesn’t fancy you.”
Erec, red-faced, started to thumb his teeth at his cousin but saw Jouglet watching him, and thought better of it. He resumed the stance he’d had before, ready to engage with Georges again. The smaller boy glanced over Erec’s shoulder toward the slope and his face lit up. “His Majesty is coming to watch!”
Willem glanced up to see Konrad, mounted, riding over the gentle crest of the foothill in a broad path between rows of grapevines. His vanguard, two mounted knights in livery, held high a banner with the imperial coat of arms to make sure he would not be unrecognized. He was followed by a group of some dozen nobles and knights, also mounted, and their servants, who were all on foot and walking faster than seemed comfortable, to keep up with the horses. Willem— extremely self-conscious around Konrad since unhorsing His Majesty at the joust the week before— immediately went down on both knees on the dirt and bowed his head; Jouglet and the dozen squires followed suit at once. From the top of the hill, a few hundred paces away, Konrad gestured for them to rise.
“Carry on,” he called out. “We will make ourselves comfortable at our leisure on the pavilion.”
Jouglet, rising first, saw who was riding to either side of the emperor. “It’s a family reunion,” the minstrel said in a loud whisper to the knight. “Tell these pretty boys to put their shirts back on or Brother Paul will throw them all out for deviancy.” Willem made a dismissive gesture.
Erec looked far too excited about the king’s arrival. Willem gestured him closer, and he approached, certain he was about to be given an opportunity to show off. But instead Willem shouted in his face, so abruptly that the younger cousin jumped back in shock: “Erec!” This got the attention of even the most distracted squires. “Your penalty for breaking concentration is to put down your sword for the rest of the afternoon and tend to Atlas.” Willem’s horse had been off his feed since they had arrived at court. “Examine his manure and see if there is anything peculiar about it. Smell it. Taste it if you have to.”
The other squires exchanged glances, at once scared and trying not to laugh. Erec’s face puckered. “You can’t order me to eat horse-shit, Willem, I’m your lord.”
“You’re my squire, that’s why you’re here at all,” Willem corrected brusquely. “Here at your own insistence.” He turned his back on Erec, and immediately the other youths pretended to be busy practising. He clapped twice to get their attention; they were all too preoccupied with showing him how hard they were working to notice this, and most of them did not regard him.
“Attention!” Jouglet shrieked in an almost ear-splitting falsetto, leaping up.
They all froze. Jouglet made a pained face, signaled the page boy attending Willem for wine, and sat down again.
The knight chuckled. “Thank you, Jouglet.”
Between gulps of wine, Jouglet declared, loudly enough to be heard by the spectators, “Always an honor to serve such a great knight.”
Willem ignored this and pressed on. “All right now, let’s show His Majesty what you’re all made of. We will walk through the drill you learned this morning— slowly— and then up to speed.”
He had been standing to the south with the sun at his back. But now that his emperor was settling directly across from him, he felt himself too much on display and worked his way around the edge of the hollow until he was standing just below Konrad and the others. Jouglet followed him.
At a gesture from Konrad, Jouglet moved up the swell to the covered, open-sided audience pavilion, where the heralds had raised the banner. “How has this been going?” Konrad asked. Down the slope, Willem was squinting into the sunlight and calling out numbers to the fighters, who moved almost dancerlike through the drill.
Jouglet nodded. “He’s very patient with them, but very strict. He’s coaxed terrific work out of them. He could teach your knights a thing or two, sire.”
Paul, seated to his brother’s right and entirely ignored, stared narrowly at Jouglet. Jouglet smiled comfortably, knowingly, smoothly in response. “As His Eminence appears to question my…investment in the knight’s ascension, might I ask whether His Eminence has his own investmen
t in preventing it?”
Paul jerked upright, nostrils flaring like an indignant stallion. “I was actually going to comment that you are spending an inordinate amount of time gaping at these half-naked youths.” He tried to make it sound like sarcastic humor, in the hopes that perhaps a few people nearby would laugh.
“You’re right, Eminence. It’s envy, plain and simple,” Jouglet responded at once, unruffled. “I know that envy is a deadly sin, and I shall confess it when next I go to shrift.” The vaguest hint of a smile. “I am overdue to be shriven. Perhaps Your Eminence would do the honor, if he knows of any dark and private place nearby we might— ouf!” This was in response to Konrad, barely squelching his laughter, smacking the minstrel hard on the side of the head.
“Have they worked the horses yet?” asked a knight’s mistress, near the throne, eyes on the squires at work. She grinned confidingly at Nicholas, standing beside her. “I like watching them lance the ring.” Paul, hearing this, sighed with benevolent exasperation, letting everyone know this was precisely the sort of suggestive comment he would expect in a court like this.
“I’d let Willem lance my ring,” Nicholas chuckled in response, and several of the ladies tittered. Konrad gave his messenger an infuriated look of warning, which sobered him. The cardinal rolled his eyes theatrically and pursed his lips.
“Seven,” Willem called out, then noticing one of the boys over-reach, commanded, “stay on balance.” He walked among the five teams; Georges, without a partner, went through the movements as though he had an invisible opponent. At Willem’s call they came to a finish at the same moment, froze, then brought their swords to a neutral position, held upright from the waist and slightly crossing their chests. Willem nodded with satisfaction and clapped once, then began to call out numbers but much faster this time. In this tempo, they looked like an abbreviated army in choreographed battle.
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