Talking ceased when they kissed. The soft wet sounds of it vied with the Augustin’s occasional gasps for breath and Rosamund’s low murmurs of pleasure. In the passageway above, Jürgen clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying not to imagine just what liberties she was allowing him, and failing miserably. Nor did he dare look to see how close his imaginings came to the truth. And yet he could not tear himself away from the window, could not resist sharing, however clandestinely, Augustin’s pleasures.
“Roses have thorns as well as velvet petals, sweet gardener,” Rosamund said at last, in a low, husky voice, thick with desire. Jürgen did not need to see her to know she was nearly as aroused as her prey, and her desire could take but one kind of satisfaction now.
“I know.” Augustin was all but panting now under her touch. “I… welcome… their prick… ooohhhh—” His voice trailed off in a soft moan of pure bliss.
Jürgen had never imagined he’d be jealous of Augustin for anything, but at that moment he had to fight an intense urge to leap through the window down to the garden, tear the hapless mortal out of Rosamund’s arms and take his place. Jürgen’s arms hungered to hold her, his fangs positively ached to taste her sweetness for himself, feel the prick of her fangs in his own flesh.
With a tremendous wrench of his will, Jürgen tore himself away from the window and strode as swiftly as he could while still maintaining some appearance of dignity towards the underground levels of the priory. There, an unfortunate Vlach prisoner who had once served in Rustovitch’s hordes was forced to serve the hunger that the Lady Rosamund and her mortal suitor had aroused in him—but his desire for her would have to remain unsatisfied, at least for now.
Distractions, he reminded himself, dropping his prey’s body to the straw, realizing only belatedly how extravagantly indulgent his eavesdropping had been—he did not have so many proper vessels in his captive herd that he could afford to waste one on a frivolous bout of passion. Nor could he take the time now to raid east and accumulate more. I cannot afford to let her distract me now. There are too many other matters needing my attention. She is the least of them—why then does she usurp a higher place in my thoughts?
To his credit, Brother Farris did not say a word about the loss of one of their limited stock of war captives, nor did he inquire why his lord had been so careless as to drain one. Jürgen left terse instructions to give the dead man a proper Christian burial and arrange for the usual number of masses for his soul, and then took himself to the priory chapel to pray for the state of his own.
Chapter Fifteen
Magdeburg, Saxony
Feast of St. Mary Magdalene, July, 1227
“I will need more light, madame, if you would be so kind? It is after dark, after all.” Peter didn’t even look up from his notes as he spoke. Margery set another candle on the table in front of him and lit it, without speaking or acknowledging him. His request had nothing to do with the amount of light at any rate; it was a merely a code phrase. But still, Rosamund was not pleased to witness the manner of it. She tried to remember the last time she had heard them exchange a kind word, and could not.
Peter handed her a wax tablet, where he had noted: He entertains Ignatio and Balthazar tonight. Again.
She nodded, and picked up the stylus herself. “Do you know when my brother will return?” she asked, while she wrote: Lord Jürgen should know.
“I don’t know, milady.” He took the tablet back and stuck the flat side of the burnisher in the candle flame for a few seconds, ignoring Rosamund’s wince; then rubbed away what they had scribed in the wax. “I do not think his heart is in his search—he still mourns for Fabien. It would be hard to ask any man, however promising, to step into such beloved shoes.” He picked up the stylus again: Write to him. I shall take it.
“That, and he still hopes for one who speaks French.” She wrote back: No. I will go. Then, before he took the tablet back again, she added: Why don’t you talk to her?
He scowled and rubbed the words out, barely heating the burnisher first. He didn’t say anything, merely scribbled No, and then: Don’t go, it’s too dangerous. But the look he gave Margery then, who was busy helping Blanche put Rosamund’s bed here in Alexander’s keep of Finsterbach to rights, was as hurt as it was resentful.
“Perhaps you could make some inquiries,” she said, claiming the tablet one more time. “Surely there are some young French men who are looking for a good position somewhere in the empire.” She loves you still.
Rosamund laid her hand on his; he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I—I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered, not entirely sure himself what he was agreeing to. “Is that all, milady?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and rose from the table. Peter bent over the tablet, staring at what his mistress had written before stubbornly rubbing the words out of the wax, as if that would erase them from his memory as well.
“Milord, I—I find I must beg your forgiveness yet again,” Rosamund said as humbly as she could, falling to her knees at Alexander’s feet. “I pray you, please have mercy—”
“My sweet rose.” Alexander extended a hand to bring her to her feet. “What could you have possibly done to warrant such a display of penitence?”
“I am ashamed even to say it, milord,” she whispered, ignoring the approach of Alexander’s servant Gaston. “Here you have been so very good to me, so kind and loving, and I have been so ungrateful. Pride is such a dreadful sin, milord—and God’s own word teaches us to respect our elders, and yet—”
Gaston cleared his throat, meaningfully. “Milord, your guests—”
“A moment, Gaston,” Alexander said. “Sweet Rosamund. We will talk later, I’m afraid I have pressing business to attend to.”
Rosamund kissed his hand. “Might I then at least go to confession, milord? My sins weigh heavily on my soul, and I must ask God’s forgiveness as well for my wickedness, for I am keeping your Highness from his duties.
Go, then. We’ll talk later, my love—do not be so hard on yourself! Rest assured you will always have my forgiveness for the asking.”
“I most humbly thank your Highness.” Rosamund bowed low; Alexander’s hand lightly brushed her hair in benediction, and then he was gone, following Gaston to his all-important guests.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Rosamund was up and running to the stables, where Peter had already arranged to have her palfrey saddled and ready for her, and his own and Sir Thomas’s mounts as well. Less than a quarter hour later, they were on the road towards Magdeburg, and the Teutonic commandery and hospital of St. Mary.
The guesthouse was plain and spare, as befitted a military monastic house, being mostly a large dormitory, but there were two private windowless chambers for the use of Cainite guests, and it was in one of these that Father Erasmus kindly heard Rosamund’s confession. When she had also confessed her true purpose, and asked for parchment and a pen to write a short letter to Lord Jürgen, Erasmus had listened gravely, and then departed to find what she needed.
But when the chamber door opened, it was not Father Erasmus with the promised scribing supplies, but Lord Jürgen himself.
“Milady. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Jürgen bent over her hand, brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Father Erasmus tells me that you had a message for me—he thought it best I hear it myself.”
“Milord. I thank you for seeing me—in truth, I did not know you would be here. I thought only to leave word for you.” Now that she was here, it was no easy thing to say what she had come for. If I betray Alexander’s trust, even for his sake, will Lord Jürgen ever trust me after? Where does my duty lie?
“And what is that word? Speak, milady, I listen.”
She told him.
“I suppose I should not be surprised,” he said at last. “Ignatio Lorca is a snake, slithering about looking for heels to sting, and Balthasar has never been shy about keeping his options open. And Alexander, I imagine, grows restless—but is it Paris his eye is fixed upon, or somethin
g closer and more convenient?”
“I don’t know. He does not confide such things to me.”
“Your position, I think, is already known.”
“Would you have it be otherwise?”
“No, milady. I prefer candor. Among our kind, it’s almost a novelty. So what business has Balthasar with Alexander?”
“If I may say so, milord, since you value my candor—”
He raised an eyebrow. “Go on, lady.”
“Your vassals grow restless because you have spent more time with your attention outward—on crusade in the Holy Land, or in Hungary—than inward, to your own domains. They are princes in their own territories, and they have grown unaccustomed to having an overlord, to the point where some wonder if they have need of one at all. Some even dare imagine what it might be like to claim an even greater domain than merely their own. And you must realize that Lord Ignatio serves his own purposes as much as your sire’s. He seeks dissent, but he has little trouble finding it. Such conditions toppled Alexander.”
“Do you make a comparison?”
“No, milord. I offer a concern for your consideration. Believe me when I tell you this, Lord Jürgen—you are nothing like Alexander.”
“That, at least, is gratifying to hear,” Jürgen said dryly.
Had she still breathed, she would have blushed. “I—I didn’t mean it quite like that—”
“What do you think my sire’s purposes are?”
“I think—” She hesitated, now unsure of his mood. “I think if he had truly meant to show his support for your rule here, he would have sent a different messenger. But it does him no good to undermine you—so that’s not it, either. This is more of a test, isn’t it? Like sending Alexander to Magdeburg in the first place.”
“Quite probably.”
As was sending me with Alexander. “It never ends, does it? They’re never satisfied.”
“No. But neither am I. Be assured, milady. I do not plan to sit idly on my throne and let some Lombard snake burrow into its foundations. But I do not do this for Lord Hardestadt’s amusement. He did not put me on this throne. I do not need his support—such as it is—to keep it.”
Jürgen was standing directly in front of her. His very nearness overcame her defenses. The full intensity of his charisma had been meant for the battlefield or open court, not the confines of this spare little guesthouse cell. “You see, milady.” His voice was soft, but it still thrummed in her very bones; she was held captive by the intense blue of his eyes. “In the end, it’s not their desires, their ambitions, or even their satisfaction that drives us. It is our own. The will, the courage, the ambition to become more than we are, and all we can be must come from within. It cannot be taught—only acted upon.”
His passion was contagious. In that instant, Rosamund felt herself almost able to stare back at Salianna, at Geoffrey, even at her own sire, hold her head high and defy the fate they had sentenced her to. Almost. I am not Lorraine, she reminded herself. I will not be trapped as she was. I will not make her mistakes. I must not.
“You must act, then, milord,” she said. “Either to crush the snake, or strengthen your foundations. Or both, for there are always more snakes.”
“Indeed, my sire has an endless supply of them.” He held out his hand to her. “Walk with me, milady? It is too fine a night to spend it within such confining walls.”
Smiling, she laid her hand in his, and let him lead her out to the main hall of the guesthouse, where Peter and Thomas were waiting. The mortals rose to their feet expectantly, and Rosamund remembered her purpose.
“Milord,” she said, turning to Lord Jürgen regretfully. “I cannot stay. I must return before he wonders where I’ve really gone.”
Jürgen studied her for a moment. “Perhaps I have been remiss,” he said, thoughtfully. “I should have arranged for you to have a haven of your own here in the city. The Ambassador of the Rose should have an embassy, after all. And she should answer for her actions to no one save her queen and the prince she serves.”
“Your Highness is most generous,” she said. “But it is enough that I have your leave to do so—in the interests of diplomacy, it would be more proper for an Ambassador to make her own arrangements. I could not have brought you such news as I did this night had I been in any other place but where I am—and in these difficult times, I must be in a place where I can best serve your Highness and my queen.”
“I see.” Jürgen suddenly took note of the witnesses, Peter and Thomas standing by, waiting patiently for their mistress to finish her business. “You may get your lady’s horse ready,” he told them, and it was not a request. “I will bring her out to you presently.”
Rosamund turned slightly and nodded. Both mortal men bowed and left to carry out their instructions.
“I would not have you place yourself at risk, milady, not in my service or your queen’s,” Jürgen said when the two mortals were gone. “You are not my only eyes watching the comings and goings at Finsterbach. Though I also confess it… pleases me… that you would think so highly of me that you would come personally and tell me where my duties lie.”
She dropped her gaze immediately. “Milord, I did not mean—”
“Rosamund, no—I didn’t mean it that way, either.” He was still holding her hands, so she couldn’t escape. Now he took her small white hands between his own, one above and one below, as if in shielding them, he could shield her as well. “Allow me rephrase that, milady. I am pleased that you came, and I promise you, I will take your advice to heart. But if you are in any sort of danger because of it, I will not be pleased. You are under my protection here. If you or your brother need that protection, please do not hesitate to ask—I promise you, it is yours.”
Rosamund didn’t even want to think what colors her halo might be blazing in right then. Decades of practice kept her emotional turmoil—she hoped—from revealing itself on her face; she looked up and smiled at him. It was hard to avoid his eyes—or to want to avoid them. There was something in her that wanted to let herself fall into them, let him protect her. And then what would Alexander do? That gave her the strength to resist. “Thank you, milord,” she managed. “Be sure, if I need it, I most certainly will.”
He brought her hands up, and kissed her fingers, first the right hand and then the left, and then let them down again. “Thank you, milady.”
Then he took her out to her horse and held it for her to mount.
“She doesn’t understand, does she, Margery?” Alexander’s voice was a soft whisper in her ear as they lay together on his bed in the darkness before dawn. Ignatio and the other delegates had left Finsterbach two hours before. “I love her so much. No one will ever love her as I do. All I want is to make her happy.”
“Yes, your Highness,” Margery replied. She had learned months ago that Alexander didn’t actually want conversation from her, merely her submissive affirmation. She had hoped that during the year he had been away he’d forgotten about his claim on her, but such had not been the case. At first she had come only because she had no choice—she feared what he might do to her, her mistress or Peter if she dared refuse.
Peter had never understood this, of course. Still, Alexander’s absence during the past year had allowed most of the breach between them to heal. It had been easier to work with him, discuss their lady’s business and concerns, do the little things she had always done for him, preparing the liniment for his joints that ached in Magdeburg’s cold winter, presenting him with a new shirt at Easter. For a short while after that it was almost as if nothing had ever come between them; old troubles, while not forgotten, could still be set aside, as distant from their lives as Alexander himself.
But it was not to last. Now it seemed Peter once again looked on her as if she was some common tavern-woman, who offered her body for a penny, speaking to her only when his duty demanded it, avoiding her close company, spending more time out of the house during the day. As if what she had given him had lost its va
lue—as if he thought she had wanted Alexander’s cold hands on her body, or to shudder in pleasure when he demanded of her that which he could not ask of her mistress, suckling on her as if he could taste Rosamund in her very blood. In the past few weeks, that little bit of pleasure, however it came, had been all that sustained her from one week to the next, and gave her to strength to present a bright face to her beloved mistress, and to face Peter’s accusing gaze at all.
When Alexander at last succumbed to the day, she slipped out from under his arm, put her clothes back on, and made her way back to Rosamund’s own chamber.
Peter was sitting on a bench outside the door. She pretended not to see him, and headed straight for the door, but he rose to his feet and stood in her way.
“Margery—”
“I’m very tired, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Please let me by.”
“I—I wanted to talk to you. Please.”
He sounded awkward, hesitant, almost like the first time he—Margery suppressed the memory firmly. “I don’t know what there is to say—”
“Some things I should have said a long time ago. And I didn’t, and this is all my fault.”
“You’ve said quite enough,” she said, and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Let me pass, please.”
“I—I know. I don’t know why I—I never meant it, Margery. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Yes, you did. You meant every word of it, and it was all true. Now will you get out of my way?”
“I still love you.”
The words hurt; stinging salt on half-healed wounds that other words of his had cut into her. Temptress. Whore of Babylon. Witch. Did he think he could heal what he had ripped apart so easily as all that? “Do you really?” she asked, fighting the tightness in her throat, the tears burning behind her eyelids. “What would an apostate monk know about love?”
Stunned, he stared at her. She pushed past him, slipped inside her mistress’s chamber and shut him out.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 16