His full attention was focused on Rosamund’s grief and his own, but when Blanche dropped to her knees, he looked up. Alexander himself stood in the door way, clearly having let himself in, or ignored the efforts of servants to announce him properly. His youthful features showed deep concern and sympathy.
“My poor rose,” he murmured, holding out his hands to her as if he expected her to jump up from the bench and run to him. “I just heard the news. I’m so dreadfully sorry to hear about poor Margery. Whatever possessed her to do such a thing, and to you? Especially now, when you needed her the most!”
Josselin nudged Rosamund gently, turning her a bit so she would notice their lord’s presence. Even in her grief, however, she knew her duty; reluctantly she rose, left her brother’s arms, and went to Alexander’s. Josselin fought down his own irritation, feeling himself and Rosamund intruded upon, her grief trivialized like a child crying over a broken toy. Alexander had known Margery only for her blood. What Margery had been to Rosamund was a relationship Josselin suspected that Alexander would never understand.
Alexander kissed Rosamund’s cheeks, lapping up her tears, murmuring softly to her. Then he seemed to realize Blanche and Josselin were still standing there, watching his performance. “Go on, girl,” he said to Blanche. “I can see to milady well enough. I’m sure you have other things you should be doing.”
Blanche was not the brightest of girls, but she knew a dismissal when she heard one. She swallowed hard, curtsied, and fled.
Alexander turned to Josselin, whose irritation was already growing into something much far more virulent. Rosamund, however, kept her wits, and forestalled the likely confrontation before it began. “Josselin. Please—could you find Peter for me? I’m worried about him.”
—You promised, Josselin. It can be borne, and you will allow it….
Josselin met her eyes, took a deep breath, let it out. “I’ll find him, milady.” He took refuge in action; he bowed, strode out, and then managed to hold his anger down until he reached his own chamber below, where he drew his sword and, in one blow, split the table in two.
Fifteen minutes later, he was once again mounted. He thought for a moment—where might Peter have gone? But he could think of only one likely refuge. Josselin urged Sorel towards the west gate, paid his toll to be let out again, and then was on the road towards the Teutonic commandery and hospital of St. Mary’s.
“He arrived sometime this morning after Prime, Brother Abelard told me,” Brother Renaud said, “and spent practically the whole day prostrate on the floor in the church, in great anguish of soul, even during the day offices. I finally persuaded him to come to my cell and rest. Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed to have visitors there, of course, but under the circumstances the Hochmeister gave his permission.”
Josselin had never been in the monks’ quarters, even in Kronstadt; the secular knights and their men had kept to their own quarters, whose limited amenities had still been considerably more luxurious than those he suspected the monks enjoyed. Now he glanced around him with an outsider’s curiosity at the interior courtyard of the Teutonic commandery of St. Mary, with its cobbled paths winding between small bushes, an herb garden and a statue of the Virgin, surrounded by the vaulted brick cloister and the tall, soaring walls of the church and the main keep.
“Has he said exactly what happened?” Josselin asked. “Milady did not have opportunity to give me more details.”
“Some, but his grief has not allowed him to say very much as yet. I hadn’t the heart to press him too hard.”
Renaud led him down one side of the cloister, and then through what Josselin guessed was the refectory for those of the order who needed mortal sustenance. Here they went down a circular stair and then down a long, tall passageway with very few doors. At the end of this there was a turn, a short, straight stair down, and then a small antechamber and a broad door leading to a large chamber beyond.
The Cainites of the order did not have private cells but, like their mortal brethren, slept in one large dormitory. This chamber, Josselin guessed, was under the church itself; it had a great vaulted roof and a number of thick pillars supporting the floor above, which provided a number of neatly separated, if not private, alcoves the brothers used as their sleeping chambers.
Renaud’s own alcove was near the door, a bare little nook with a narrow cot, an unadorned chest for his monk’s garb and mail, and a few hooks on which to hang a white mantle, his sword, and a white shield with the order’s black cross. Peter sat slumped on the bed, eyes closed, lips moving as his fingers counted the beads on a rosary.
“Peter?” Josselin said softly, waiting for the brief pause after a paternoster, not wishing to interrupt Peter’s devotions more than he must. Peter didn’t respond, though he did not move on to the next bead, but sat there unmoving.
“Peter.” Josselin went down on one knee beside the bed and its silent occupant, and laid a gentle hand on the mortal’s arm. “Our lady asked me to find you. We’ve been worried about you.”
Peter’s eyes were red and swollen, his face smeared with grime and the tracks of his tears, his thinning hair in disarray, his clothes dusty. “Well, milord,” he said finally, in a voice a bit hoarse from weeping, “here I am.”
“Are you ready to come back?”
“Hans told me she called my name,” Peter murmured. “She wanted me beside her… but by the time I got there, it was too late. There—there was nothing I could do.”
Josselin laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you did all you could, Peter. It’s not your fault.”
“They won’t even let me bury her in consecrated ground…” Peter whispered, eyes closed. “Not as a suicide. It’s a mortal sin. So many sins… I should have married her, it’s all my fault….”
“We will find a resting place for her, I promise,” Josselin told him. “Come back with me.”
“I—I suppose milady needs me,” he murmured, rubbing at his eyes wearily. “Can’t waste any more time, then. Too many things to do. Must—must go—”
Josselin, his own heart aching at Peter’s misery, was about to suggest that perhaps he could stay a night or two at St. Mary’s if he wished, to rest and pray, but Renaud forestalled him.
“She does need you, Peter,” the younger Cainite said, before Josselin had his thoughts together. “How can she not? Who else can she depend on at this time? You know how useful Blanche is going to be, she’s far too fleece-headed to handle anything of import on her own. Lady Rosamund needs you, Peter, now more than ever.”
Josselin saw Peter’s back straighten up, and only then remembered what it had been like to be a mortal in service under the blood, to desire more than anything else his lady’s approval, and to be needed. “She needs you, Peter,” he said, picking up on Renaud’s instinct. “Our Savior knows I can’t write her letters for her.”
That almost got a hint of a smile, and Josselin continued. “And she needs you to help her with Margery. You know what has to be done, and how Margery would have wanted it. You are milady’s right hand, and she cannot manage without you.”
Peter stood up, and Josselin rose with him. The mortal rubbed at the grime on his cheek, then brushed at the dirt on his tunic. “If I might prevail on your kind hospitality one more time, Brother Renaud, for water to wash my face? I—I would not appear before milady looking like a beggar.”
Chapter Eighteen
Magdeburg, Saxony
Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary,
September, 1227
“Milady, please. I beg you. This is—is quite—” It had been a long time since Rosamund had heard Peter so upset that he had trouble finding words for his thought, even in his native English. “Quite unacceptable,” he finished. “I will not have it. She has no right to—this is not her place!”
“Peter, I know. I know.” His pride would not let him weep in front of her, but his eyes were red and swollen, and his cheek, when she laid her hand on it, was flushed an
d hot. Rosamund focused her gaze on him, drawing air into her lungs, letting the air out again and, with it, soothing, calming thoughts. I do understand, Peter. We’ve barely buried Margery, how can you accept anyone else in her place?
He took several ragged breaths himself, recognizing the comfort she was offering him and accepting it, her personal attention and concern the exact soothing balm his wounded spirit craved.
“It’s not Katherine’s fault, either,” she reminded him gently, when it seemed his temper had been once again reined in. “Nor is it yours—you know how much I rely on you, now even more than before. Alexander apparently thought I needed someone, so—”
“He sent her here to spy on you, milady,” he said, bitterly. “You know he did.”
“Then I will rely on you to ensure she finds nothing suspicious to report, and to keep our Blanche from talking too much. Maybe Thomas will consider renewing his affections with her—that will distract her adequately, I suspect, and I don’t think he’ll mind.”
“Most likely not,” he agreed. “Will you be giving her—Madame Katherine, I mean—the elixir, then?” Mortals in Cainite service had many names for the blood—even those who knew what it really was.
“Perhaps, in a week or two—with your approval, of course.”
“My approval?” he echoed, a bit doubtfully.
“You are still my seneschal, Peter. I value your judgment.”
That finally got something like a smile, even if it was a bit grim. Rosamund suspected Madame Katherine would be put through her paces—but that was Peter’s prerogative, and she would not take that away from him. “And speaking of the elixir—how long has it been, Peter?”
“I—I don’t even remember, milady. I should check my vade mecum….” But even as he said it, she could see the hunger in his eyes.
Rosamund took his hand and led him to the window seat, then sat down beside him. “Write it down later,” she said. Her hand still lay in his; a tiny nod gave him permission.
Peter raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, and then unlaced the first few inches of her sleeve almost reverently. She sliced across her wrist with a small knife, wincing a little—no matter how many times she did this, it still hurt—and he suckled greedily on the open wound like a babe at its mother’s breast. While not as intense as the kiss of one of her own kind, it was still pleasurable to feel him drawing on her, forcing the blood to move sluggishly through her veins.
But it was not Peter her thoughts perversely chose to dwell upon, triggered by his lips on her flesh. Jürgen, of course, would hardly need a knife. She could almost imagine the sweet pleasure and pain of it, his fangs in her flesh, the blood rushing through her veins to fill his demanding mouth, his blue eyes burning through her—
“Milady?” Peter asked, hesitantly.
Rosamund suddenly realized her fingers had closed tightly enough over his to hurt. The wound in her wrist had ceased to bleed, and her own fangs had descended. The sudden spasm of hunger-desire that gripped her then must have shown in her eyes. Peter’s own eyes widened and the former flush in his cheeks fled, leaving them nearly as pale as her own. Yet even so, he closed his eyes and lifted his chin, offering himself to her in perfect love and submission.
He gave the softest of moans when she took him, relaxing totally into her arms, helpless in the throes of her kiss. His blood, hot and rich, spiced with her own essence, poured over her tongue. Even as she savored his surrender, guilt stabbed her as well: This was not what I meant to do—how will he ever forgive me? She reined herself in, withdrew, forced the sweet flow to cease with her tongue, laving the marks of her violation of him away from his skin, and then held him close. “Peter—Peter, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t hurt you for all the world, please forgive me—”
His arms went around her as well; he pressed kisses to her temple and stroked her hair, assuring her he was neither angry nor hurt. “Lady, my sweet lady, it’s nothing, you would never hurt me, you know I am your servant in all things—”
For a few minutes it was difficult to say who was really comforting whom. Then they both recovered their relative dignity and remembered their places and parted, save for his hands, which she kept in hers, and he did not object. “Peter,” she said at last. “What would I ever do without you?”
“I honestly don’t know, milady,” he said, in perfect seriousness.
There was a knock at the door of her chamber. At her nod, Peter went to go answer it, and schooled his sudden scowl quickly into something more neutral as Katherine entered, carefully bearing a long, thin box of carved wood, wrapped around with a white silk ribbon. Her bow was court-perfect, her knee very nearly touching the ground, spine straight, eyes respectfully on her mistress. “Milady. A messenger just delivered this for you, from his Highness.”
“Oh?” Rosamund had to remind herself to maintain her own courtly manners, and not to act as she might have with Margery, forgetting her dignity as mistress of the house. “Thank you, Katherine—please, put it on the table there.”
“From which Highness, madame?” Peter put in, his own spine suddenly straight as a lance.
“From his Highness Prince Alexander, of course,” she replied, as if that should have been obvious from the first—what other Highness had any place in giving her mistress gifts?
Katherine laid the box on the table, and Rosamund, who enjoyed presents of any sort, carefully undid the bow, unhooked the tiny brass clasp and opened it.
Her initial smile of delight froze in place. She hoped it wasn’t obvious to Katherine, at least—Peter, of course, simply knew her too well. “Katherine,” she said, softening her smile into something more natural. “Would you be so kind as to find my brother Sir Josselin and ask him to attend me, please?”
“Of course, milady,” Katherine said, executed another court-perfect curtsy, and departed at once on her errand.
Only after the door had closed, did Rosamund take the delicate creation from where it nestled in the velvet cushioning of the box: a beautifully sculpted rose of ivory-colored silk, its stem of carved and painted ash, complete with thorns and green silk leaves, each petal perfectly cut and shaped, surrounding a center spangled with knotted gold thread and the whole of it giving off the sweetest scent, as if it were indeed a real blossom instead of an exquisite work of craftsmanship. Beside it in the box was a note, in Alexander’s own hand: For my most faithful rose, to match her heart’s own purity.
“All this time…” Rosamund whispered. “All this time, I had always thought he had given Lorraine a natural rose….”
Chapter Nineteen
Magdeburg, Saxony
Not long before Christmas, December, 1228
It was Christmas Court, and the hall was adorned with greens, bright with candles. The great hearth housed a ruddy blaze that no Cainite went near, yet which warmed the backs of those mortals fortunate enough to be invited to witness the spectacles presented there for their masters’ amusements. On the other side of the hall, Cainites from the local domains, the rest of the Empire and even beyond gathered to attend Lord Jürgen’s annual Christmas Court, and enjoy both the prince’s hospitality and the entertainments provided for his guests.
Some guests, such as Count Balthazar, the Lasombra prince of Bamberg, or Abbess Hedwig of Quedlinburg, were less welcome than others, but Lord Jürgen did not hesitate to use this occasion to remind them of his sovereignty, simply by commanding their presence in his court. Other guests included emissaries from Cainite courts as far away as Buda-Pest, Copenhagen, London and Milan, plus at least one from a clan few who had fought with Jürgen in Hungary had any liking to see.
“He must be getting less choosy about his allies,” Josselin whispered, his voice a mere breath in her ear, but his distaste plain, “if he’s meeting with the Tzimisce.”
From the stories Rosamund had heard of the Tzimisce, she expected to see a multi-headed, tentacled monstrosity. Instead, she saw a slender, elegant, dark-haired Cainite in long
Byzantine robes speaking with Alexander and Marques on the far side of the hall. “Tzimisce?” she repeated, as he drew her back out of the hall into the antechamber beyond.
“Vykos,” Josselin explained, after bringing her to a secluded window alcove. “The Greek Tzimisce who arranged for the truce. He claims he’s not allied with Rustovitch, but his monks are of this monastic order from Constantinople—”
“Vykos? Myca Vykos is here?”
Josselin spun around sharply, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Rosamund took a step backwards herself. Before them stood a hunched figure, hooded and cloaked in the robes of a mendicant monk. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but the gnarled, twisted hands he raised to show himself unarmed left no doubt as to his blood.
“My pardon, milady, milord,” he said in strongly accented French. “But you spoke a name I have not heard in some years, nor expected to hear in these lands. And if what you say is indeed true, then I know why God’s hand has led me to these lands.”
Josselin relaxed, moving his hand away from his sword. Rosamund braced herself not to wince as the figure raised his hands and lowered his hood to reveal his ravaged visage. The Nosferatu’s skin was drawn painfully tight over the bones of his hairless skull, the surface cracked and peeling and tinged with gray, but he held himself with pride, and his eyes were wise. “My name is Malachite.”
Alexander sat in a place of honor on the dais at the Christmas Tourney Jürgen had organized as part of the festivities for his many guests this season. He was relaxed in his chair, staring straight forward, his body totally motionless. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings; in fact the exact opposite was true, for he was quite attentive to everything going on throughout the entire hall. He was aware of Lord Jürgen two seats down, his chair in the middle of the raised dais taller and more prominent than anyone else’s, talking to Baron Eckehard on his left. He was aware of Lady Rosamund, walking among the participants in tonight’s martial spectacle, exchanging gracious words and accepting compliments, playing her part as Queen of Love. He could, in an instant, locate anyone who had ever tasted his blood: Marques, testing the sharpness of his sword in preparation for a long-awaited match against the traitor Renaud; István, in conversation with two Lasombra from Hamburg; Konrad, sullenly watching the brothers of the Black Cross; his mortal servants and agents throughout the hall. He picked up snatches of conversation here and there, recognizing not only several dialects of German, but French, Hungarian, Danish, Latin, even Slavonic and Greek, sifting the talk he could comprehend from that he could not. He listened idly for something to trigger his particular interest, absorbing, sorting, evaluating what he heard according to its relevant merits, then tucking the words away for later consideration or letting them fade into oblivion.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 18