Revenge of the Rose

by Nicole Galland

  The royal party stood on the steps to the small palace, stretched and dusted its collective limbs, and rubbed its collective buttocks after a long day in the saddle. Konrad gestured Jouglet to stand beside him. Willem had not dismounted and did not look well enough to stand on his own if he did. His Majesty cast a worried eye on the knight. “Stay with him,” he said quietly to Jouglet. “Do not leave his side.”

  “What about your Galahad?” Jouglet asked. She had deliberately refrained from going near Willem for this very reason.

  “I would rather have Willem alive than Galahad dead,” Konrad answered. “And you will be no use to me if you are fretting about him while he’s away from you. Where is he staying?”

  Jouglet began to answer— and then stopped. And then began again. “Willem of Dole is staying at the inn off the Cherry Garden,” she said, with a little more projection than she needed to. A few heads glanced in their direction briefly. Including Paul’s.

  Konrad gave her a subtle nod of understanding.

  She bowed to His Majesty and descended the steps to approach Willem. Without asking permission or offering an explanation, she took Atlas’s reins and led him out of the archbishop’s gate, down the narrow street between the towering church and stony cemetery, through the broad cobbled market called the Cherry Garden, ringed by trees burdened with the darkening fruit. Between two of the biggest trees stood the door to Mainz’s best inn. Openly publicizing her companion’s identity, Jouglet was able to requisition a room for them, a small one but one they need not share with others, because the knight was so ill. The innkeeper saw them settled comfortably in and then brought up Flemish broth of egg yolks and white wine in water for Willem, who was slanting toward delirium. Below, the lodgers could hear the innkeeper trying to cajole the party that had lost its room to Willem of Dole.

  * * *

  The humidity had been getting worse all day; Lienor was a puddle trapped in human skin. She had recovered from the sunstroke of the previous day, but now she could hardly breathe. The butter-based concoction Jeannette had mixed up for her cracked lips was working, but it smelled rancid and was a great delight to flies. They had run out of water and did not dare drink from the foul Rhine— they had heard about the Rhine— and they had long run out of food. For all the fulsome vegetation around them, it was only the occasional feral cherry tree or wild strawberry plant that provided them with edible fruit; the hazelnuts and walnuts were still green, as were the apples. She was aware, through the general haze of malaise, that Jeannette was handling all of this much better than she was, and she envied the common woman for her fortitude. Her shame and jealousy had roused in her the last reserves of physical and mental strength, and somehow she’d managed to continue on a pace with Erec. But now again she was losing her resolve.

  They had spent the previous night in another inn, just south of Worms, because Lienor’s appalling state would rouse too much attention in a castle. Here, as at every place they’d stopped for food, German ale was served in place of wine; it made her shudder. She could not get over how foreign it tasted, how sour and grainy. And as she looked around the crowded little inn, trapped there by another passing thunderstorm, the travelers from the north and all the local denizens looked foreign too, but for the strangest reason: many of them looked like herself and Erec. The cousins’ fair coloring had made them stand out in Dole; certainly Lienor’s blond hair had been one of her most touted and striking charms. But half the people here, including women who were really very homely, sported paler skin and hair and eyes than she was used to seeing in the general population, especially among the lower classes. Why was she rushing into a venue where even if she were to triumph— unlikely in itself— she would no longer be special?

  Then she remembered, with a jolt, what it was to feel prized, beautiful, unique, and safe— and shut up in her room at home. Suddenly every moment of this nightmare trip felt like a privilege.

  * * *

  30–31 July

  There had been a brief, tremendous storm that night, and Jouglet had meant to stay awake throughout it. But when Willem at last fell soundly asleep, she also drifted into slumber.

  She was awakened by familiar hands gently touching her face and hair. She opened her eyes and took a breath of relief, seeing that Willem’s color was back. He hovered over her with a candle in one hand. “I’m surprised you weren’t groping around beneath my tunic,” she said.

  “That would be ungentlemanly,” Willem announced, and kissed her. She returned the kiss, and his hand drifted toward her tunic skirt. He smiled a little. “But of course, you like ungentlemanly— “

  Sobering, she shook her head, and saw him wilt a little. “Willem, the crisis isn’t over. We have to get you out of here.” He looked confused. “The whole point of letting people know you’re here is so they don’t know where you really are. Now that you’re alert enough to move on foot, you’re going elsewhere to recover.”

  “I am recovered,” he assured her and took her hand to slide it down his still-clothed body. “Shall I prove it to you?”

  “No,” she said with some exasperation, and pulled her hand out of his. “You aren’t recovered at all, you’re at death’s gate.”

  He sat up, his ardor squelched, and sighed with resignation. “What is the game this time?” He held out the candle to place it on a clear spot on the floor. His hand shook; he was still weak, she realized. She rested her cheek on his forehead to test how warm it was.

  “You’re still feverish, so nothing but cooked pears for you until tomorrow’s supper.”

  “You sound so very womanish,” Willem said, with a weak smile. “I like it.”

  She made an aggravated sound and began to fidget with her purse ties. “There are all sorts of things happening at the archbishop’s palace and I am missing all of it,” she informed him. “I’m certain Alphonse and Paul are plotting again— to force the match with Besançon, to finish you off somehow at last, to lure Marcus further into their camp. And if Marcus knows that you’re to have Imogen, Lord knows what he’s planning right now to prevent it.” Willem groaned a little, and she gave him a sour look. “Well, speak then,” she said, in an irritable tone. “Say something infuriating, like, Go on, I’d hate to keep you from your favorite pastime while I’m busy being sullen.”

  “I’m not sullen,” he protested, and kissed her forehead. “I wasn’t sullen the entire journey, except when I was practically unconscious. I’ll be at death’s door, now, if you require it. But why do you require it?”

  Jouglet propped herself up on her elbows so they were face-to-face. “As long as you’re at the gates of Paradise but not yet crossed over, Paul’s in check. So you’re at the gates of Paradise until I set things to my liking here on earth. Then you’ll recover— and Paul will make another move, and I’ll be ready for him. But first I’m taking you somewhere safely secret, so he can’t send someone in to knife you while you’re low.”

  Willem lay back on the bed and looked up at her with a wan smile. “Honestly, Jouglet, must you persist in playing my white knight? When will you accept that I simply cannot be your lady?”

  * * *

  Cloaked, on foot, Willem’s sword wrapped and hidden, and without a lamp in the grey dawn air, she led him slowly through several twisting lanes with half-timbered houses packed together, to the street where the town’s draft animals were lodged, and finally to the handsome building on the corner, at the edge of the small, sequestered Jewish quarter of the city. He was exhausted by the time they got there. The innkeepers were just rising. They did not know Jouglet and had never heard of Willem, but they were used to comforting travelers whose roads had been sometimes hostile. Without questions, they provided a clean, dry, warm room alone for the two strangers.

  Jouglet crawled naked into the bed beside him, knowing this might be the last time she would be allowed such a luxury. Despite his earlier claims, he was not yet recovered enough for lovemaking, but they caressed and held each other gently until
he sank into slumber, as the sounds of the city came to life outside. He looked restful and comfortable for the first time in days.

  * * *

  Jouglet left money and instructions for Willem’s convalescence, then hurried back to the inn at the Cherry Garden. Here she made a show of asking for more Flemish broth for the invalid upstairs, whose fever had risen with the sun. She was dearly tempted to go to the archbishop’s. But her greatest hope of profit lay elsewhere, in a void she could neither see into nor control. So— with a knife in her grip, for security— she sat on the small landing in front of the empty sickroom, tending to the imaginary patient, whose fictional and slowly worsening state was whispered about across the Cherry Garden and northward to the archbishop’s. She sat and waited, and prayed she had not misjudged the only person who had never disappointed her.

  The day yawned onward, the sun arched slowly overhead, the sounds and smells of the town outside the walls of the inn changed with the shadows. Town life went on, and peaked, and slowed, and stopped, and it was night. And she was still sitting there. And still she sat, until, depleted by anxiety, she fell asleep.

  * * *

  1 August

  The predawn meeting was in the archbishop’s main chamber, where Konrad had slept. He had his brother sent for, trundled Marcus and the sleepy-headed pages from the room, and blew out all but one of the beeswax candles that he traveled with to keep each unfamiliar room smelling like his own.

  “This is a family meeting, not a political one,” he began gravely. “Let there be an absolute understanding between the two of us on this much: nothing bad is to happen to Willem of Dole again. I know you were behind the poisoning, and I will not look the other way if this happens again, even if I have no proof. Even if it is not your fault, you will be blamed and I will hang both you and Alphonse. I’ll hang you both if he does not recover now. If he does recover, keep an eye out for his well-being, do you understand that?”

  Paul looked affronted. “Brother, I do not know what— “

  “I invite you to shove the entirety of your sacred frock down your gullet, but you will not lie to me on this,” Konrad said. “I know you tried to poison him, and I know why.” He was very satisfied to see Paul’s coloring turn a pale bluish green. So Paul did have something to hide. He would have to ask Willem what it actually was, since Jouglet refused to do so. “Yes. I do. So you see this marriage between Imogen and Willem of Dole is in your interest. You are restoring what you helped take from him. If you don’t, your clerical privilege aside, I’ll see you hanged in my own court for what you did to him, and I’ll declare the day of your death an annual holiday.”

  “Does Your Majesty have other news to…discuss with me?” Paul asked, trying not to faint.

  “This is not news,” Konrad informed him with a nasty smile. “It is a direct threat. Pass it on to our crony uncle, I don’t want to waste my breath on him. I expect the Assembly to go as we all assume it will. We will do the business of the empire, and then announce my own betrothal to the Besançon girl, and Willem’s to Imogen, and Marcus’s to my daughter. Thank God we sorted that all out!” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “And Marcus will be made a duke at last.”

  * * *

  Finally approaching Mainz, the trio had not dared the castles and manors of the local lords, who might recognize Erec and whose guests might recognize Lienor. So it had been a common inn for them again, in a village south of Mainz, just off the track of the enormous traffic the Assembly was bringing into the city. The Assembly was the next day, but with luck, it would begin late, as huge ceremonial events usually do, giving them time to hunt down Willem— and more important, Jouglet, whom all of them agreed would be the one to fix things.

  “But then, really, what is there to fix?” Lienor sighed in the room the three of them were sharing. She sat slumped on the floor, with all the effervescence and aroma of an old wet rag. “I’m a disgusting mess. To present me to the emperor now would be begging him to mock us. Even if I could reclaim my reputation, I could never possibly be made presentable to him.” She smiled apologetically to Erec, who stood by the door. “I’m afraid this was a waste of time and effort.”

  Jeannette, comfortably sprawled on the bed, clicked her tongue. “Tch. If you are willing to resort to some sluttish tricks, I can make you look remarkable,” she said. She patted the bag she had brought with her from Sudaustat, which lay on the floor by the bed. “This isn’t just the wedding tunic in here, you know. I have a few miracle concoctions, too. But let’s start with giving you a tub and hairwash.”

  * * *

  Lienor, thoroughly cleansed, slept soundly in the bed beside Jeannette; Erec slept on the floor. The next morning Jeannette expertly mixed up her sluttish concoction in the room while Erec waited outside. Using white lead mixed with rose water and a pinch of a mysterious red powder, she experimented until she had a whitening paste that nearly matched Lienor’s skin tone. She applied it first around the eyes where a week of squinting in the sun had left its mark, and then a finer layer all over her entire face and the backs of her hands. Then she opened the door and presented her to Erec.

  “Good God,” Erec said, “you gave her back her face! Cousin, you are…” He shook his head with wordless admiration, and knelt grandly at her feet.

  Lienor turned to Jeannette, unsure what to say for gratitude, and finally just threw her arms around her.

  “Don’t cry, or it will run,” Jeannette said brusquely, but she was pleased by the embrace.

  They set out on the brief final leg of the voyage into Mainz. Erec had never been here, but it was easy to find directions to the best inn of the town. As they approached, both horses lifted their heads, sniffed the air, and then began to whinny loudly and repeatedly. In a pause between the neighing, another horse from within the inn’s walls answered them. “I trust horse sense,” Erec said, alighting. “I’m positive that’s Atlas.”

  And it was. The inn was large and handsome, facing the Cherry Garden, and they were directed up the steps that were directly beside the hall door.

  Erec looked at Lienor solicitously. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked softly. “Would you like me to go up first to prepare him for you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll do it,” she said.

  They climbed the stairs, Jeannette a few steps behind them.

  At the top, on the small, railed landing, a young guard had fallen asleep before the door, chin dropping over chest, unmoving. Lienor tried to walk around the sleeping figure, but the sleeping figure suddenly sprang up and grabbed her, furiously, and pushed her back against the railing, whipping out a knife and holding it against her pale throat.

  Jouglet’s face was barely a lash’s length away from hers and they locked eyes, the knife wavering in the musician’s hand. Erec was afraid to raise a cry, afraid that any sudden movement would make Jouglet strike on reflex. “It’s me,” Lienor whispered, frightened, trying to stay calm. “Jouglet, friend, it’s me, I’m innocent, I know you know I’m innocent, please— “

  Jouglet, spooked, dropped the knife from a trembling hand. “Milady,” the minstrel said hoarsely, and bowed. “For the Love of God, milady, I almost slit your throat.” She sank back onto the balcony floor, hands clasped, nearly hyperventilating. Then, recovering a little: “I knew you’d come, milady. I’ve been waiting for you. You are the white knight— white bosom and all.” And then, sobering: “Where’s that accursed Erec?”

  “I’m here,” he said, without defensiveness, from the top step.

  Jouglet looked warily, almost accusingly, between them. “Did he hurt you?” she demanded of Lienor.

  “No,” Lienor said reassuringly as Erec reddened. “My mother realized what had happened and prevented him.” At a frown from the minstrel, she explained, “The steward heard about the birthmark from my mother. He got her drinking, and she spoke too much.”

  Jouglet looked incredulous. “Your mother? Spoke too much?” Then Jouglet, glancing between
them, noticed Jeannette on a lower stair, and her eyes widened. “Good heavens,” the minstrel said at last, looking now between the three of them. “Must have been an interesting journey.”

  Lienor knelt down beside Jouglet on the balcony. “I’ve come to clear my name with Willem— “

  “Not with Willem,” Jouglet corrected. “No, milady, you must clear it with the emperor.”

  “If I explain the situation to Willem, he will understand and surely be able to explain it to the emp— “

  “No, no, no,” Jouglet said firmly, and got back to her feet, wincing with a sudden awareness of how stiff she was. “That’s not enough. This has gotten out of hand, there have been rumors feeding rumors, you need a very public exoneration.” She frowned into the bright early morning sunshine, thinking, and stretched each limb gingerly.

  “Do you have a better idea than going to my brother?”

  “Of course I do.” A pause. “Give me a moment to figure out what it is.”

  “Can’t I see him while you’re thinking about it?” Lienor begged. “I cannot bear the thought of his believing ill of me, I want to— “

  But Jouglet already had a plan. “He’s not really here, milady, and there is no time now to go to him, the Assembly is…assembling. Luckily Konrad decided to pull rank yesterday— he sent out heralds ordering them to assemble here, outside the church, and not across the river as they usually do. That buys us several hours while the lords all ferry over. Quickly, do you have any of your jewelry with you?”

  “I have all of it,” Lienor answered.

  “And a wedding dress,” Jeannette answered, one corner of her mouth grinning.

  * * *

  Marcus, in his official livery of black and gold, was in the otherwise abandoned bedchamber of the archbishop’s palace, trimming his beard and thinking how easy it would be to slit his own throat. He had been plunged back into grief and panic from the moment Konrad announced that Willem would marry Imogen. It would take a miracle— or someone else’s extremely clever, unexpected scheme, since he had no more stomach for such measures— for him to protect his beloved now.