Margery listened at the door until she heard his footsteps trudge wearily away down the corridor. Then she curled up beside Blanche and cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Magdeburg, Saxony
During the Fifty Nights of Pentecost, April and May, 1227
“I want to show you something,” Alexander said. There was such a bright sparkle in his eyes, his smile brilliant enough to light the entire room, that she could not resist. He led her out of the solar, out of the keep itself, and down the stairs to the courtyard. “Come with me, hurry!”
Whatever it was, he seemed ecstatically happy about it, and his enthusiasm was contagious. But there was only one horse waiting.
“But—” she started.
“You can ride behind me. Give me your hand.” He pulled her up to sit pillion behind him, her arms around his waist. “There. Hold on tight, now, we’re going.”
The horse took off at the slightest touch of his heels, causing the guards at the gate to duck quickly out of its path, and for her usual escort to get their own horses hurriedly and catch up as best they could.
Josselin and Thomas caught up when they were half-way to the city, but hung a few lengths back, content to follow, although Rosamund could imagine Josselin’s annoyance at being relegated to mere escort.
Alexander took them inside the city, the city guards opening the gate for him without questions, and through the streets. “There, my rose,” he said. “See? That one, with the banner?”
Rosamund looked where he was pointing: at a steep-roofed, four-storied house on the end of the street, with a gate leading down between the house and its neighbor to the stable and yard beyond. Over the door hung a banner of dark silk, proudly bearing the insignia of the white rose. “What—?”
“It’s for you, my love. An embassy for the Ambassador of the Rose.” Alexander lifted one leg over his horse’s neck and slid down to the ground, then turned and held up his arms for her. “Come, I’ll show you.”
She reached for him and let him lift her down. “For me?”
He did not release her from his arms right away. “An ambassador needs an embassy, doesn’t she? And there’s even a garden in the back, with roses growing up the wall. I saw that and I knew it had to be for you. It’s a perfect choice, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Rosamund agreed, suddenly radiantly happy, bathed in the glow of his almost boyish delight in pleasing her. He understands. It’s going to be all right now. “It really is perfect.”
“Come in, see the inside,” he urged, and she was more than happy to follow.
Josselin and Thomas pulled up outside, as Alexander and Rosamund disappeared inside the house, the door closing behind them.
“That’s… very generous of his lordship, isn’t it, milord?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, it is,” Josselin agreed. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he looked up at the banner hanging over the door and noted the location, only a few blocks from St. Paul’s church and its priory. “Very generous indeed.”
It took a good many weeks of work before the new Embassy of the Rose was fully prepared. The building was cleaned from cellar to attic. The servants, both Rosamund’s own stalwart staff and those new to her service, most of whom she had hand-selected from those available to her from Finsterbach, were coached on their duties, what was expected of them and what was not. An ongoing exchange of correspondence that had first begun while Jürgen and his forces were still in Hungary had now come to its next expected level. Lord Jürgen himself would not meet with the representative of Clan Tremere, but by his leave the Ambassador of the Rose would, and see just how badly the usurping warlocks wanted to make amends for Jervais’s diplomatic faux pas of fifteen years ago—a faux pas with which the ambassador herself was intimately familiar.
That her interest—and that of her loyal guardian—in this meeting was personal as well as diplomatic made this a bit more difficult, of course, but even more necessary.
“I want to see him, Rosamund.” Josselin, predictably, was far more interested in the fate of Lucien de Troyes than Jürgen’s diplomatic relations with the Tremere. “I have that right, don’t I?”
“It won’t change anything, Josselin. You can’t help him anymore. What’s done can’t be undone.”
“He never even had a chance to speak in his own defense. Salianna condemned him out of her own petty spite.”
“He betrayed our trust, conspired with the Tremere to undermine our diplomatic efforts here in Germany, stole something of great value, and when he was in my custody he broke his word yet again, and he ran away. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I was there, remember?”
“I know!” Josselin snapped, and then, more gently, “I know, petite. I’m not disputing his guilt. I know what he did. But he does not deserve the Final Death for it. That is not justice.”
“You still love him, don’t you?” Rosamund laid her hand over his, where it rested on the back of a chair. He laid his other hand on top of hers.
“He’s still—” He stiffened, raised his head, and stood straight up again; Rosamund, also catching the sound of the door being opened down below, did the same. There were a few words, and then the creak of the stairs as their guest ascended to the solar where they awaited him.
“Ah, milady Rosamund. So good to see you again.” Jervais positively beamed with good humor as he mounted the top stair and turned to bow politely; a great bear of a man with a neatly trimmed dark beard, whose smile, Josselin noted, did not quite reach his squinting eyes. “And this must be the noble Sir Josselin de Poitiers! I’ve heard so much about you, milord. It’s such an honor to meet you at last.”
“Sir Josselin,” Rosamund said formally, “may I present to you Master Jervais, of the High Chantry of Ceoris.”
Josselin offered the very briefest of bows, barely a nod of his head. “Master Jervais,” he said coolly. His eyes were drawn to the nervous Cainite standing in the Tremere’s rather substantial shadow. “Lucien.”
“Well, my dear Lady Rosamund,” Jervais held out one fleshy hand. “Why don’t we leave these two to get reacquainted? I’m sure we can find a few things to talk about to occupy ourselves—”
Rosamund did not miss the sudden look of panic Lucien gave his master—she suspected this was not a reunion he had requested. “Of course,” she agreed, as graciously as she could. “Milord, we’ll be in the garden, when you’re ready to join us.”
Josselin nodded, and gave her a half bow as she laid her hand on that of the Tremere and allowed him to precede her down the stairs and out of the solar.
Their footsteps receded. Neither Josselin nor Lucien spoke for nearly a whole awkward minute after that.
Finally, Lucien took the plunge. “Are you going to destroy me, milord?” he asked.
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Josselin found himself raising his voice for the second time in a quarter-hour, and concentrated on calming himself.
“Will you do it? Carry out her sentence, take back what you gave me? If anyone has the right to unmake me, you do. God knows I’ve not turned out the way you wanted.” Lucien paused, took a quick breath. “Whatever nobility you saw in me that night, I’ve tried hard to find it. But I think it died as I did, in your arms.”
Red flared across Josselin’s vision, and he struck, sending Lucien flying back against the wall. The young Cainite fell, but Josselin was there, grabbing a handful of his hair and tunic, yanking him up to his feet, forcing his head back so his throat was exposed.
Lucien was trembling, but he didn’t resist. Instead he arched his head back farther yet and closed his eyes. A single blood tear ran down his pale cheek. “Do it,” he whispered. “End my misery. Finish what you started. Your queen comma—ahh!”
Josselin sank his fangs into Lucien’s throat. Cainite blood, rich and full, flowed over his tongue. My own blood—he is my own creation, I made him, how can I unmake him now? My own childe, however illegitimate—<
br />
He forced himself to withdraw, to lick the wound closed. Lucien was weeping; Josselin let him go, eased him down to the floor and followed to kneel beside him. “No. This is not justice, and I will not be party to it. Lucien—”
“It was a good idea,” Lucien mumbled. “It almost worked. I would have liked to end my nights under your kiss—swept up by the rapture of it, not even noticing when the last spark of unlife left me and my body crumbled to ash in your arms. I’m a coward, you see. I’m afraid of the end if it’s going to hurt.”
“Why did you run away? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Eyes. Dark eyes, framed in lashes nearly as long as a woman’s, set in cheeks that would never know a beard. Margery felt the will behind those eyes pushing at her own, like storm winds battering rain against the shutters. It was all she could do to hold on to her own identity, remember her name, against the onslaught.
“Don’t resist me, Margery. It only hurts when you resist. And you’re tired. So tired. Don’t hurt yourself any more….”
Then the shutters broke and the sea poured in.
“Madame Margery? Are you all right? You look pale.
I’m fine, Blanche. Thank you.” She looked at the spindle in her hand, the wool she was spinning. Its operation was unfamiliar, and irrelevant. She laid it aside and rose to her feet. “Where is our lady?”
Blanche looked puzzled. “She has a guest, madame. I believe Sir Josselin is with her also.”
“Of course. I remember now.” Margery leaned down to stare into Blanche’s wide blue eyes. “Forget I even asked.”
“Yes, madame.” Blanche went back to her spinning, the conversation already forgotten.
Margery went to the window, and sat on the cushioned seat, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms about them. It was cold, but she ignored the discomfort. Instead she closed her eyes and listened. Blanche’s softly whirring spindle became a thrumming roar; her own heartbeat echoed like a drum. But then she concentrated, let her attention drift through the keep, picking up snatches of conversation here, the snores of sleeping mortal servants there. There—there was a familiar voice.
“Why did you run away? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“What else could I do? Trust Salianna’s mercy? You of all people should know better than that! Not even Isouda stretched out her hand to save me. What could you have done?”
“I did speak for you. I asked for mercy—”
“And we know just how highly Salianna values your counsel, don’t we?”
“I am sorry, Lucien. You’re right, this has not turned out as I wanted. How does he treat you, this master of yours?”
Lucien? Margery remembered Josselin’s childe—but what was he doing in Magdeburg?
“No worse than I deserve, I suppose. Better than he treats his chattel, but worse than he treats his apprentice—I’d still not be Tremere myself for all the gold in the Templar treasury.”
Tremere! The expression flitting across Margery’s face was not her own, the cold fury in her eyes foreign to her nature. Exactly who was Rosamund’s guest?
She let her attention drift, leaving Josselin consoling his errant childe. Rosamund. Where was Rosamund? Ah—there. The garden.
“He is our kinsman, Master Tremere. Surely you can understand our concern for his welfare?”
“My dear lady, when he came to me, he seemed utterly convinced that his kinsmen were out to destroy him. There was the little matter of a blood hunt called against him in Chartres—has the queen lifted that sentence?”
“No. No, she has not. Josselin and I hope to persuade her yet.”
“Was it not by your testimony he was condemned?”
“I never wanted him hunted for it. And there were… extenuating circumstances, of which you are well aware. Lucien did not act alone, nor entirely of his own will. Be sure, Maestro, that I have not forgotten that, either.”
“Of course. Of course, milady, I do understand. I hope you also understand my position. Those of my blood are not so welcome across much of Europe and it would hardly help my position to confide my servant to your care in a secret manner. If you wish me to make the formal surrender I had previously suggested—”
“That’s quite all right, Master Tremere. I’m sure Lucien appreciates your protection, Maestro. Considering the price at which it came.”
“Regrettably necessary, milady—you have no idea what an untrusting lot my brethren are. Not to change the subject, milady, but have you any news for me? Has Lord Jürgen accepted my petition?”
“I gave it to him, Maestro. You must be patient. I’m sure you understand that he might not be eager to receive you.”
She was conspiring with the Tremere. Conspiring with the Tremere! So this was what the little harpy did when he was away, and in the very house that he had given her! This was how she repaid his trust, his leniency…. She would pay for this. She would have to be punished. She had to learn….
Margery felt a stabbing pain behind her eyes; her entire head throbbed and the room spun crazily. “Blanche—”
“Madame?”
She attempted to rise, but the darkness rose up and swallowed her. With a little cry, Margery collapsed to the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
Magdeburg, Saxony
Near the Feast of St. Augustine, August, 1227
Dark eyes. Piercing her, sharper than any Cainite’s fangs. Cold hands, cold lips, and a burning in her blood. Hot, dry humors that needed to be cooled, the fire quenched…
Margery was well regarded even by the native German servants in the household; she was a kindly mistress, and had provided salves for burns and tisanes of herbs to soothe fevers and other ills even back in Finsterbach. The dawn was lighting the horizon when she came down to the kitchen, but Hans and his wife Eva were already up, stoking up the coals and preparing for the day’s work. It was nothing to pour a cup of cool ale for madame’s medicine, and of course he hoped she would feel better soon. She accepted it with thanks, and then sat in a far corner of the kitchen with her basket of medicines and poultice makings. A tiny vial with a tightly sealed cap provided what she needed: She poured its contents into the ale, then packed it away again. The taste was odd, unfamiliar; it burned in her mouth and sent tingles over her entire body as she gulped it down. Surely she had used this before—perhaps the ale flavored it oddly. Most of her medications did work better in wine. She was suddenly hot, sweating… her hand fell on a piece of parchment at her side, English lines written in her own hand, the ink still fresh:
I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I cannot bear this any longer, the weight of the sins on my soul. Please tell Peter I never…
A cold fear suddenly washed through her. She remembered then exactly which vial she had taken from her basket, and knew then what her fate would be.
“Peter!” She struggled to her feet, but her legs would no longer support her, and she fell to the rush-strewn floor. “Peter!”
She was dimly aware of someone calling her name, of Eva come to her aid, but oil of monkshood worked too quickly. By the time he came, running down the stairs in a very undignified manner to fall to his knees beside her, to cradle her in his arms, she could no longer speak. When he bent to kiss her, it took all her remaining strength to turn her face away, knowing how that would be the last and cruelest hurt she would inflict on him, but better that than he taste his own death from her lips. Peter… my love… milady… what… have I done?
Josselin knew something was wrong even as he passed through the city gates—he couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a darkness that touched his soul as he rode slowly through the empty streets. The house showed lights within, but no lantern on the gate—and even that oversight was foreboding.
Anton the groom, one of the servants whom Josselin himself had chosen, met him in the yard, took his steed Sorel’s reins and whispered the news fearfully, as if he wasn’t sure he was even allowed to talk about it. Josselin thanked him, left Sorel in his care
, and then hurried to Rosamund’s chambers.
“Where have you been?” Rosamund demanded, when he came in. “You said you’d only be gone a few nights!”
It had been three years since he had tasted her blood, but her anger still cut him. “I’m sorry, petite. I only just heard.”
“I needed you,” she managed. Tears were already welling up again in her eyes. “I needed you here.”
He came and sat beside her on the bench, drew her into his arms. “Rosamund. My sweet lady. I am sorry, ma petite. But I’m here now.” He glanced around the room. Blanche hovered nearby, her own eyes red and weepy. “Where’s Peter?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know, milord. He rode out this morning, right after she—” Blanche swallowed hard. “He was distraught, milord.”
I can imagine he was. Both Peter and Margery had been in Rosamund’s service a long time—her first mortal attendants, and always the most devoted to their mistress. There had been bitterness between them of late, Josselin had observed, which he had found puzzling, but hadn’t thought too much about. Now he wondered if he should have done something, spoken to one of them, tried to help. “Do you know why she would want to do such a thing?”
Rosamund raised her head from his shoulder. “Bring me the note.”
Blanche brought it. He glanced at it, then held it for Rosamund to see. “What does it say, petite?”
She read it aloud to him.
“Please tell Peter she never what?” he asked. “What sins?”
“I don’t know, Josselin! I don’t know why she—she did this, I don’t know why Peter—” She swallowed, tears welling up in her eyes, and reached for him; he held her close and let her mourn. His own heart ached as well. Margery had always been kind to Fabien, for which he was grateful, and generous to him; to Rosamund she had been so very much more.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 17