“The Hochmeister will also be watching this evening—I trust the younger brothers will remember their manners as well, no matter what they believe about the French.”
“I am certain they will, Brother. Just as I am certain that you will not disappoint them.” He set the bowl of hair trimmings aside, and with a reverence bordering on ritual, laid out a wooden board, stained with old blood and slightly gritty with ash, and scarred from frequent use. Beside the board, he laid a small hand axe, its edge polished and honed nearly as sharp as his shears.
“That is in God’s hands, Brother Hildiger.” She came to the table and its implements, took a deep breath.
“Yes, Brother.” Hildiger turned away, closed his eyes. He didn’t like to watch.
Lucretia laid her right hand down on the board, curling the first two fingers under her palm and letting the outer two splay out at just the right angle. She picked up the axe in her good hand, hefted it comfortably to get just the right balance, and aimed carefully. It had taken several weeks of practice to get the same cut every time.
Then she brought the blade down on the wood and her own hand with a solid thunk.
About fifteen minutes later, Brother Christof was fully dressed. He left his cell to go join his brothers and sisters at holy office, the stumps of the two outer fingers on his right hand now healed over without a scar.
Renaud’s blunted sword bounced off his opponent’s side, the force of the blow lessened by armor and the underlying monk’s habit. Wheezing a little, the Teutonic Brother dropped to one knee, conceding the match. Rosamund applauded with the rest of the audience at Jürgen’s court, though the monk’s fellows seemed considerably less enthusiastic when a stranger defeated one of their own.
“Isn’t there to be any blood tonight?” Erzsébet Arpad asked. “No steel?”
“Don’t worry,” Sir Marques assured her. “Sir Josselin is challenging the Lord Marshal of the Black Cross himself next. That’ll be bloody for sure.”
“Oh, good,” Erzsébet exclaimed, just loud enough to make sure Rosamund could hear her. “But whose blood will it be, that’s the question—”
Rosamund held her tongue. Apologizing once to Erzsébet had been bad enough. She was not prepared to make a habit of it. This, she was learning, was the most popular court entertainment in German Cainite society—the display of prowess at arms, either of mortals, ghouls or even of the Cainites themselves. More Cainites had come tonight than had attended court the night of her presentation—mostly male, and several more wearing the black Teutonic cross.
The opening matches had been bouts between ghouls, in armor and using blunted swords. Renaud, whom she did not remember as a particularly impressive swordsman, had demonstrated a new, almost savage aggression, easily winning three bouts.
“Sighard’s blood,” Marques muttered. “It’s ruined him—he’s turning into an animal himself.”
Erzsébet, hanging on his arm, was quick to agree. “And you told me he was once in the service of Lord Alexander’s childe? The poor fellow has gone down in the world.”
Rosamund ignored her. She suspected Erzsébet would be far less bold if Sighard was actually within earshot—but sooner or later she was bound to get careless and forget just how well those tufted ears could hear.
Fabien had not done so well. Josselin’s squire had been matched against a Teuton who was both taller and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, and Rosamund privately suspected Josselin did not drill his squire on foot combat as forcefully as he could. Fabien was breathing hard and holding his side as he returned to the mortal spectators’ side of the hall, and did not seem to mind Margery and Blanche fussing over him before he went to help Josselin arm for his own bout.
Rosamund looked for Peter, and found him standing with the victorious Renaud some distance away. It was odd—usually her little family stuck closely together. But during the past week, Margery had shared Blanche’s pallet in Rosamund’s room, and she and Peter had seemed to say no more to each other than their duties demanded.
Alexander sat beside Rosamund, ignoring the conversation going on around him, barely moving—she wasn’t sure if he was actually watching the matches.
Fabien, doing his best to ignore his own injuries, helped his master strap on the shield, which bore Josselin’s own heraldry: azure, three swans naiant argent. Josselin bent close as his squire whispered some last-minute encouragement, and then accepted his newly honed sword from Fabien’s hands.
Steel. Unlike the mortals, they were fighting with bare steel, with shields but without armor, clad only in their shirts and hose, with not even the padding of a gambeson between their opponent’s sword and their own flesh. For a Cainite, such a fight posed only minor risk—what might incapacitate or cripple a mortal would be considered a fair blow given the recuperative powers of the blood, and a fatal blow would not be permitted. Their white shirts would show the stains of their wounds, allowing all to keep score.
Rosamund had seen such bouts before, in France. They were popular—the knights liked the thrill of actually blooding their opponent, the risk of taking such wounds themselves. Not all such bouts ended quickly; some required one combatant to be incapacitated or actually surrender, and such matches could go for hours while the combatants sliced each other into bloody ribbons, refusing to acknowledge themselves beaten while they still had blood to heal themselves, and were still capable of standing.
Neither Josselin nor Brother Christof, however, seemed intent on proving himself invincible. This bout would likely be quick.
Lord Jürgen himself stood as judge and marshal of the Cainite match. He wore the habit of the Black Cross tonight, his dark gold hair cropped to his jaw line and beard neatly trimmed.
Rosamund wondered if the prince’s garb was intended as a not-so-subtle sign of partisanship. She had already noted Brother Ulrich standing with the others of his order, clearly relishing the thought of their marshal facing down the foreign challenger. She had little doubt that Josselin was relishing the bout as well.
“This match will be to three strikes, and strikes will be to blood only,” Jürgen said. “Is that acceptable, Sir Josselin? Brother Christof?”
They both nodded. “Yes, milord.”
“Then make yourselves ready.”
Josselin raised his sword in salute. Brother Christof did the same.
Lord Jürgen signaled, and the page holding the banner between them lifted it and moved quickly out of their way.
The handsome monk was good, Rosamund was forced to admit very quickly. Nor did Christof react impulsively as Josselin had told her Marques sometimes did, anxious to prove himself. Not so young as he appears, either. He was quick and agile, but his strikes did not move into speeds beyond normal perception; therefore Josselin did not do so either. And when his sword, moving at normal speed, got past Josselin’s guard and slashed through his sleeve, the French knight dropped to one knee. “Hit,” he admitted. “Very good, Brother.”
The monk nodded and returned to his place. Josselin healed the wound—it was little more than a scratch—and did the same.
The same move did not avail Christof again. This time Josselin’s shield blocked it, and they circled again. Another flurry of blows, and Josselin’s sword flicked out under Christof’s arm and sliced across the monk’s ribs. The tip of his sword sliced through fabric and undead flesh, but did not penetrate past bone. Christof inhaled sharply and then let his sword arm go down. “A hit, Herr knight,” he said. He sounded almost surprised. “Good.”
Rosamund found herself chewing her lower lip again, and forced herself to stop. Her hands were clenched as well, she relaxed them. Three seats down, she could see Lady Erzsébet’s eyes following the combatants’ every move, the tips of her fangs showing behind her lips.
It seemed to Rosamund, at least, that Josselin’s success had startled the monk somewhat. Of course, it had also made him more determined. The third round was more cautious, both combatants less willing to take risks, m
ore focused on defense. Still, they moved quickly. Rosamund found herself accelerating her own perceptions just to slow them down enough to see. As it grew slower, the swordplay became more deliberate, more graceful; the two combatants moved in their elaborate dance of strike, dodge, strike, parry, circle, feint, strike, parry….
Because she was watching them so, she saw the end coming before they did. Christof’s low feint suddenly moved high, and his sword sliced across directly at Josselin’s unprotected neck. She knew the instant he recognized his danger, made the swift decision which way to move—extremely hazardous if he guessed wrong and moved into Christof’s blade instead of away. She saw Josselin meet his opponent’s eyes, and then freeze in place—letting the sword come at him unhindered.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
The monk’s sword stopped just as the edge touched Josselin’s throat. A thin rivulet of blood ran down from the edge of the blade to stain his shirt. Josselin dropped his sword and went down on one knee, Brother Christof’s blade still poised at his neck. “I yield.”
The brothers of the Black Cross were on their feet, cheering the victory. The rest of the audience applauding as well. Across the hall, Margery gave a vastly relieved Fabien a hug. Rosamund clapped as well, trying not to shake at how close that could have been. Josselin could have dodged that. He could have blocked it. Why didn’t he?
Christof tossed his sword aside as well and offered his opponent a hand up. Grinning, Josselin accepted it. The two men spoke together for a moment, then parted to pick up their swords and return to their respective sides, both to warm welcomes from their supporters.
“That’s that, I suppose,” Erzsébet said. “Until next week’s matches, anyway.”
“To be honest,” Marques told her, “I’ve seen him lose more often than win—”
That could not be borne. Rosamund turned to face him. “Have you ever dared challenge him, milord?” she asked. “Shall I inform Sir Josselin you wish to face him next week?”
“I have nothing to prove,” Marques said, although from the look on Erzsébet’s face, Rosamund suspected he’d be persuaded otherwise soon enough.
“You should go to your brother, milady,” Alexander said. It was the first time he’d spoken all evening. “No doubt his pride needs your tender consolation.”
Josselin didn’t look particularly in need of consoling—he actually seemed to be in very good spirits indeed—but Rosamund didn’t feel like disputing Alexander’s impressions. “Yes, milord,” she said obediently, and left the dais without regret.
She found Josselin kneeling next to Fabien, more concerned with his squire’s injuries than his own performance. A massive purple bruise was spreading across the mortal’s side, and he gasped in pain when Josselin had him bend this way and that.
“You’ve cracked a rib, I think,” Josselin told him. “We’ll have to wrap that up so you can ride.”
“I can always ride,” Fabien insisted, stubbornly. “Yes, but we can at least make you less miserable while you’re doing it.” Josselin gave Fabien’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Ah, Margery. Thank you—”
“I’ll see to him, milord,” Margery had her basket of herbal simples, bandages and poultice makings. “I think milady wants you.”
“Milady!” Josselin noticed her now, and rose to his feet.
“And how are the wounded warriors?” Rosamund asked, offering her warmest smile.
Josselin chuckled. “Barely scratched. Right, Fabien?” Fabien grinned at her over Margery’s shoulder.
Rosamund glanced around. “Where’s Peter?”
“You’ve not seemed your usual self of late, Peter.” Alexander’s voice was soft, soothing, his expression one of grave concern. “I was wondering if there was something I could do to help.”
Among the mortal servants of the house, Alexander was not known for his charity, and to be summoned by him was never a good thing. Peter concentrated on remaining calm. “I thank his Highness for his kind concern,” he said carefully, choosing to flatter the deposed prince with his old title and the most deferential tone he could muster. “However, I would assure his Highness that I am quite well and content in my service to milady, and his Highness.”
“Are you indeed?” Alexander began to walk around him in a circle, as he’d done to Lady Rosamund a few nights before. “I would not have thought so the other night. You seemed quite distressed, in fact—did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Don’t look him in the eyes. It was his litany, his only hope. When Alexander’s circling brought him in front, Peter averted his gaze, hoping not to be too obvious about it. “I—I was merely concerned for—for milady,” he stammered. “I meant no disrespect to his Highness. If I have offended, I beg—”
“Don’t beg.” Alexander cut him off sharply. “Not yet. When it’s time for you to beg, be sure I will let you know.”
“Yes, your Highness.” Peter clasped his hands in front of his stomach, fighting the habit of his monastic youth to hide them in his sleeves.
“I am sorry you were distressed,” Alexander’s voice was smooth and silky again. “Was it merely your concern for your lady that so moved you? Or was there someone else who perhaps held some small claim to your affections?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Yes? To which? You must confess it in order to be absolved—isn’t that what they taught you at Notre Dame de Chartres?”
That Alexander knew that much of his past sent a cold chill down his spine, and put a sharper edge on his reply. “Absolution can only be pronounced by an ordained priest, your Highness, and confession is for sins alone.” He knew as soon as the words escaped him that they were a mistake—he sounded lacking in humility. And to apologize immediately would merely draw the error to Alexander’s attention, demand retribution. “I have nothing I need confess.”
“Don’t you?” Alexander asked. “Forgive me, Brother, but—is not fornication a mortal sin?”
Pride goeth before a fall, Brother, Peter reminded himself bitterly. “Yes, your Highness. It is.” Somehow he kept his voice calm. He realized he was wringing his hands; he forced himself to stop.
“And you have sinned, Peter. It’s no secret—the entire household knows who shares your bed. Even Lady Rosamund knows—she’s far too well bred to speak of such shameful behavior, of course.”
Peter could think of nothing to say. It was true, he had sinned. And of course, everyone knew, that was hardly a surprise. Even Renaud had known, and he’d been away at Hardestadt’s court half the time.
—You should have married her, Peter.
“Why didn’t you marry her?” Alexander asked. “Did you think the flavor would go out of it then? They do say, you know, that love cannot abide in marriage.”
“I—I was under vows—” he whispered. Margery had been disappointed, he knew that. But he could not bring himself to break that final vow—just as he could not bring himself to give up the pleasures of her company in his bed.
“You were pure, Peter. Weren’t you? Before she touched you, corrupted you. You sacrificed that purity of God for the stain of carnal sin, and for what? For her?”
“—What?” He didn’t want to hear this, he didn’t want to know—but he found himself listening, hanging on Alexander’s every word.
“Open your eyes, Peter. See what kind of woman you have so blindly given your heart to. Didn’t you see how willingly she came to me? Do you believe it was you she was thinking of when she lay naked in my arms? Did she not give herself to Sir Josselin when he was wounded—did she even hesitate to offer him her most intimate comforts? Did you not see her fawning over Fabien this very evening?”
The images were too clear: Margery leaning close to Fabien’s ear, her hands on his shoulders; Margery’s knowing smile when Sir Josselin kissed her hand and thanked her for her kindness to him; Margery lying on Alexander’s bed, waiting for the deposed prince’s sweet kiss—
“No!” Peter sank slowly down to
his knees, sobbing. “No… no…”
“All I’m suggesting is that you think about it, that’s all,” Alexander murmured leaning over him. “Consider it well. Is that woman really worthy of all you have sacrificed for her—would you let such a common whore keep you from the glories of heaven? Is she really worth your immortal soul?”
Peter was so wrapped up in his own private agonies of the spirit, he never even noticed when his tormentor left in search of other, more challenging prey.
Lucretia knew he would come, as soon as their guests had departed for their intown lodgings. Jürgen would want her counsel, and for her to listen as the prince thought aloud. It was the way they had worked together for several decades now, and Alexander certainly was something that had to be talked about.
But it was not Alexander that was foremost in Jürgen’s mind when he came to Lucretia’s chamber.
“Well, Brother,” Jürgen said. “Tell me, did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
Lucretia grinned, and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, partly, yes. He’s very good. Much better than I expected, in fact. It’s almost a pity his blood is not of our line. He would have beaten Ulrich, you know.”
“You should have let Ulrich learn his lesson. This Knight of the Rose damn near beat you.”
“As I said, he’s very good. Not as good as he clearly thinks he is, but…” She scowled, and couldn’t quite control the annoyance in her voice. “He let me win, the bastard.”
“I thought he should have parried that last stroke.”
“I asked him why. He claims he thought it poor diplomacy for a stranger to defeat the Lord Marshal of the Black Cross—especially in front of half the brethren.”
“A very diplomatic answer, considering you likely would have won anyway. You don’t sound as though you believe him, though.”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it’s good diplomacy. He’s got balls—he didn’t even flinch when my sword was coming down. What he’d be like in a real fight, though—”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 11