Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Janet Trautvetter

  “How was your evening, Rosamund?” Alexander asked, taking no further notice of the two ghouls. “Did you enjoy being in a real court again—such as it was?”

  Rosamund smiled. “I did indeed, milord. As did you, I trust?”

  “Whom did you find to speak with?”

  “Oh. Well. I spoke with Father Erasmus for a while—and I met his lordship’s fool, who is quite clever.”

  “And what did you talk about with Father Erasmus?”

  “He offered to find me an instructor in German, so I might better serve your Highness by learning the language of this country we find ourselves in. And he also offered to introduce me to some others in the hall, and so he did.”

  “How very thoughtful.” Alexander began to pace around her in a circle. “Who did you meet?”

  What’s he after? “I met the ambassador from Hungary—Lady Erzsébet Arpad, and her cousin István. I also met Baron Eckehard and Abbess Hedwig, and Brother Ulrich—”

  “What did you talk about with the Lady Arpad?”

  “Not—not much of interest. She was making cutting remarks, and I refused to rise to them. And then Lord István came to tell her she had a message that had to be attended to at once, and she fled.”

  “You really must learn to get along with people better, my dear, if you’re ever to be an effective ambassador.”

  “She—” Rosamund took a deep calming breath.

  “Of course, milord, I know.”

  “The Arpad are a noble house in their own country, and they can be powerful allies for our cause. Surely you don’t think that because they are not French, they aren’t worthy of your respect?”

  “Of course not, milord, but—” But Erzsébet is a spoiled little bitch.

  “You wouldn’t want to jeopardize a possible alliance with powerful allies, would you, Rosamund? No, I didn’t think so. You will apologize to Lady Erzsébet at the next possible opportunity. In front of witnesses. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, milord.” There was nothing more she could say. Erzsébet must have promised him the world, whether she’s authorized to do so or not.

  “You didn’t mention Lord Jürgen in your list.”

  “No, milord—you asked whom I had met….”

  “So you did speak to Lord Jürgen. Were there witnesses? I do hope you haven’t offended him too?”

  “No, I have not. He was most gracious, milord. He did ask about your plans.”

  “My plans. And what did you tell him, my sweet?” Alexander stood behind her now. He started to play with her hair, slowly unraveling the braids.

  “I told him you wished nothing more than to return to Paris and reclaim your rightful place there. He seemed to be concerned you might cast your eyes elsewhere—to a throne closer to hand. I assured him that was not so. It’s not, is it?”

  “And what else did Lord Jürgen wish to talk about?”

  “Nothing else of importance. He waits to learn more of your plans, milord; you are a far greater concern to him than I am.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of whether something is important, milady. You might be surprised what I find to be of interest. So, no secrets between us, Rosamund. What else did Lord Jürgen want?”

  “He asked if our accommodations were adequate—I assured him, of course, they were.”

  “Of course. I fear I’ve undone your hair, milady. Your woman will have to braid it again. You. Come here and fix milady’s hair.”

  Somewhat nervously, Margery stooped slightly to pick up the comb from the travel chest, and came to where they stood. The parchment rustled slightly inside her surcoat.

  “Now this I wouldn’t have believed of you, Rosamund,” Alexander said softly. “Using your servant to hide your secrets—a poor defenseless mortal woman. You. Give me the letter.”

  Margery cringed away. “L-letter, milord?” On the other side of the room, Peter stiffened.

  “Give him the letter, Margery,” Rosamund said quietly.

  “Yes, milady.” Margery drew it out and Alexander snatched it from her fingers, unfolding it and scanning the brief contents.

  Rosamund turned to face him, carefully putting herself between Margery and Alexander. “It is nothing, milord,” she said.

  “Nothing. It’s not signed, milady. He’s had this a long time—and he only gave it to you, when? This very evening? To what letter does he refer?”

  “A letter I wrote long ago, milord. After my first visit to Lord Jürgen’s court—long before I came to Paris or met you.”

  “Why even bother, after all this time?” He stared at the few lines of script. “Nothing, you said?”

  “Yes, milord. It’s nothing. Just a bit of—”

  “Good.” He took two strides over to the table and held the letter out over a candle. The edge smoldered, then caught.

  Margery’s hands clamped down on Rosamund’s shoulders, reminding her to stand still. Rosamund patted her hand, then guided that hand to her hair. Do what he told you. Fingers trembling a little, Margery set to work.

  Alexander stared at the flames licking at the letter now, spreading down its edges, almost as if the fire itself entranced him. Only when the flames nearly reached his hand did he take two more steps to fling it into the ashes of the fireplace.

  Rosamund watched the letter burn. It’s just a letter. I remember what it said, I’ll remember it forever. Jürgen won’t ever know what became of it. I should have given it to Josselin straight away—

  “There. That’s much better, don’t you agree?” Alexander smiled at her, and Rosamund felt her heart lighten. He wasn’t angry, not really. Everything would be all right.

  “Yes, milord. Much better.”

  “Good. You know I would never cause you distress, milady.” He came closer, laid one hand gently against her cheek. “So warm,” he murmured. “You accepted Lord Jürgen’s hospitality—what that whey-faced woman had to offer?”

  “She seemed quite kind to me, milord. Yes, I did—did you find nothing to your taste, then?” It was a delicate question. Ventrue like Alexander could be very touchy about their personal tastes—it was, or so she had been taught, the height of discourtesy to even ask what one’s “taste” might be.

  “No,” Alexander said softly. “I did not… at least, not yet. There is an old custom among those of my blood, dating back to the days of Rome. We have many such customs, of course, but this one is special. The Auctoritas Cibus—the Right of Sustenance. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, milord. What is it?”

  “It means that a Ventrue may, if need arises, claim feeding rights on any single mortal chattel of kinsman or ally that happens to meet his peculiar needs. Any single kine, even the personal servant of the prince himself—for none may deny to one’s kinsman the right of sustenance. And he may have rights to that kine so long as his need may require, and the kine survive. A very practical custom, the very essence of hospitality, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It sounds very practical, milord. Will you go to Lord Jürgen then, to claim your right?”

  “I suspect Lord Jürgen cannot fill it—I’ve seen what his hospitality offers. It does not suffice. Fortunately, the Auctoritas Cibus does not apply to Ventrue alone.”

  A cold sinking feeling began to form in the pit of Rosamund’s stomach. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Surely you would not deny me that right, my sweet Rosamund? You have fed—can you deny me the right to do so as well? Would you have me hungry and weak, vulnerable to the ravages of the Beast? When it is within your power to give me what I need?”

  “No—” Rosamund managed. “No, milord, I would never deny you—if you would but tell me what you require, I shall do all in my power to acquire it for you—”

  “It’s not that difficult, my rose. She stands at your very shoulder.”

  Margery gave a little gasp and dropped the comb. “Milady—”

  “Margery is my personal servant, milord,” Rosamund protested. “Surely there is s
ome other who—”

  “‘Any mortal chattel,’” Alexander quoted softly. “Surely you cannot believe I would hurt her—you know how hard it is for me even to have to request this of you. Is this so very much to ask, after all we have shared together?”

  Margery cast a desperate look across the room at Peter; the seneschal’s face had gone pale, and his lips formed Margery’s name.

  “Margery.” Rosamund turned and took the mortal woman’s hands in hers.

  “I’ll go, milady. Please. No need to fret on my account, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Margery’s voice was firm, but her hands trembled a little. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Rosamund gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Yes, you will.” She turned back to Alexander. “Margery is at your service, milord,” she said, as calmly as she could, ignoring Peter’s stricken look on the other side of the room. “I pray you treat her gently, for she is dear to me.”

  “Of course.” Alexander said, with a little smile. He didn’t even look at Margery. “Send her to my room. I will be there shortly.”

  Rosamund nodded. Margery bent slightly, pressed a kiss to Rosamund’s hair, curtsied to the two Cainites, and then walked quickly out of the room. She didn’t look at Peter.

  “You cannot know how much this means to me, my love,” Alexander told her softly. “Be sure I will treat your woman as if she were my own kin.” He leaned closer, tipped Rosamund’s chin up to meet his kiss, which was long and lingering. “Never forget,” he whispered against her lips, “how much I love you.”

  Then he was gone.

  Peter stared at her across the room. The fear and worry she could see in his eyes tore at her heart. She could think of nothing to say to him, no words to excuse either Alexander’s actions, or her own.

  “I’ll—I’ll go wake Blanche for you, milady,” he said finally, and left her alone.

  Sir Renaud found Peter in his chambers in the late afternoon, when he knew those who shouldn’t hear would be slumbering and insensate. “How is Margery doing?”

  Peter shut his ledger with a authoritative thump. It helped only a little. “She’s asleep.” he said, shortly. Then he added, “Her color’s better. She had some soup at noon. Blanche is with her.”

  “Thanks be unto God,” Renaud murmured and crossed himself; Peter did so as well. “I only just heard—Fabien told me.”

  “I see our Fabien’s become quite the gossip, hasn’t he?” Peter muttered darkly. “Did he tell you she won’t see me now? Not that I blame her of course.”

  “She won’t see you?” Renaud stepped fully inside the room, closed the door.

  “She won’t even speak to me. She let Blanche see to her when she came back this morning—she was barely able to stand, but she wouldn’t take my arm. But then, she knows me for a coward now. I just stood there, Renaud. I didn’t do anything, I didn’t even protest—”

  “And because of that, you’re both still alive,” Renaud interrupted, sharply. “Listen to me, Peter. Listen very carefully—I know of what I speak. He is the very devil in Cainite flesh. You cannot prevail against him. God’s teeth, they can’t prevail—you saw what he did to Josselin! And—and to milord Olivier.” Renaud’s voice broke for a moment, then he continued on, with even greater fervor. “Your lady risks her existence every time she’s with him—now think what your life is worth to a monster like that. We are cattle to him—worse than cattle. Chickens squawking in the yard, good for nothing in the end but the pot.”

  “I know!” Peter snapped back, and then sank down on a bench. “He’s punishing milady, I think.” he said finally. “That’s why he took her. He’s hurting Lady Rosamund by hurting us.”

  “Possibly.” Renaud sat down beside him and lowered his voice. “But that’s not why he took Margery. He took her because of you. Because she loves you, Peter.”

  “He feeds from women, I know that much—”

  Renaud leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower. “Not just any women. I had to hunt for him, you see. So I know what to look for. It is the flavor of love he savors. She has to be in love with someone. Anyone, it doesn’t matter who. That’s the secret. That’s what he needs.”

  “In love—”

  Renaud nodded. “You should have married her, Peter. Love can’t exist in marriage, it’s in all the rules. If she was married, she’d be safe from him.”

  Peter closed his eyes, fighting the tears burning behind his lids. “And now it’s too late. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Renaud laid a hand on his shoulder. “Pray, my friend. Pray that God will have mercy on us all, and count these nights as time in purgatory—for surely as we still breathe, we are in the devil’s hands.”

  Chapter Eight

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  Feast of St. Martin, November, 1224

  Lucretia awoke as she always did, to the faint music of the bell ringing vespers in the Commandery and Hospital of St. Mary of the Teutonic Order. She rose promptly and left the cramped sleeping chamber, opening the hidden panel to enter her modest cell. Sister Agathe was already there waiting for her with a pitcher of hot water—one of the few luxuries Lucretia allowed herself—and a towel.

  “Good evening, Sister,” Lucretia greeted her doppelgänger. Agathe had been a rare find—a woman close enough to her in appearance as to be her sister, and both willing and able to take on the difficult role Lucretia required of her.

  “Good evening, madame,” Agathe curtsied.

  Lucretia pulled her shift off over her head and handed the garment to Agathe, who set it aside to be washed with her own. “Will you be attending the services this evening, madame?” the nun asked.

  “No, Sister,” Lucretia told her. “You may attend for me, as usual. And if one of the sisters is available for me, I’d be most grateful.”

  “Yes, madame,” Agathe nodded, obediently. “It is my turn, madame.”

  “Is it? Good.” Lucretia bent over the basin and began to wash her face and arms. The hot water brought the blood to her skin, infusing undead flesh with the illusion of life.

  “Yes, madame.” Agathe sounded pleased. She was one of the few sisters to know Lucretia’s true nature and needs—though very little else—and took satisfaction in knowing she did God’s will in providing for it, so that her mistress might be spared from sin. That she also believed Lucretia spent most of her nights in solitary prayer in the crypts below was more regrettable—but necessary. Lucretia had not lived as long as she had by letting her more vulnerable servants know her full business. “Will you be needing the bindings tonight?”

  “Yes, I will.” Lucretia finished drying herself, and ran her fingers through the unruly curls of her hair, which had grown out in tangles down to her shoulders during the day. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, madame.” Agathe brought out a narrow length of clean white linen, and began to wrap it tightly around Lucretia’s upper chest, binding her breasts as flat as possible against her ribs until she was nearly as flat-chested as a boy, and tying it off.

  Agathe sat down on the narrow bed, and unpinned her veil and wimple, laying them neatly aside, while Lucretia pulled a clean shift on over the bindings. Then she joined Agathe on the bed. The mortal nun leaned back against the Cainite’s shoulder, closing her eyes as Lucretia’s arms came around her, and making a little cry of pleasure at her mistress’s kiss.

  Lucretia gently guided Agathe to lie down afterwards. Then she rose, put a plain dark kirtle on over her shift, and slipped a pair of shoes on her bare feet. “I do not know if I will return before dawn,” she said. “I pray you do not worry if I do not greet you tomorrow evening. I shall send word if I am delayed longer.”

  “Thank you, madame,” Agathe murmured sleepily. “Have you any messages for Brother Christof, should he ask?”

  “Not at this time. Thank you, Agathe.” Lucretia bent over the bed and kissed Agathe on the cheek. “God grant you sweet rest.”

  “And you also, madame.”

  Lucretia wen
t out the same hidden panel door, but this time bypassed her bed and opened a second panel door on the other side. Working confidently in total darkness, she found the rung of the descending ladder with her foot, and closed the door behind her before she started down.

  The passage below was narrow, sloping down and then running alongside the crypts of the commandery’s chapel, where a number of the dead and undead found their own rest. It ended in a narrow, winding stair leading upwards. Lucretia slipped out of the kirtle and hung it on its accustomed peg before ascending the stairs and emerging in another plain cell much like the one she had left, save that she was now in the dormitories of the Teutonic Knights themselves.

  Brother Hildiger awaited her there, with a pan of hot water, comb and pair of shears. “It’s almost time for holy office, Brother,” he said sternly, sitting her down on a stool and draping a towel over her shoulders. “Best you start your penances now, while I work.”

  Lucretia closed her eyes and began murmuring the Latin prayers while Brother Hildiger took his shears to her tangled locks. With the ease of long practice he cut away the excess lengths, until a pile of dark brown curls lay on the stone floor at his feet, and the rest lay neatly combed and cropped to a length no longer than the lobes of her ears. He walked around to face her, tilted her chin up and studied his handiwork. “Yes, that’ll do,” he nodded approvingly.

  “Which of the brothers stand for bouts tonight?” she asked as he carefully gathered up the towel from her shoulders and began to sweep up the hair trimmings from the floor into a bowl for burning.

  “Brothers Gerhard, Albert, Stefan, Johannes the Tall, Benedict, and Rorick,” Hildiger ticked them off on his fingers, then added slyly, “I also understand Brother Christof himself has accepted a challenge from a French knight—perhaps to teach him some manners, or so it is rumored in the brothers’ dormitory.”

  She got up from the stool, brushed a few trimmings off her shoulders and sleeves. “Have the brothers nothing better to do than discuss the doings of their superiors?”

  “Brother Christof is much admired among them. Our Lord Marshal has even given his leave for all who desire to watch the bouts tonight.”