Otto took a few deep breaths, clearing his lungs, then looked around warily, even peering back into the dim church. Cainites could hear dangerously well.
“They’re gone,” Emil said. “The young brother asked for confession. The priest seemed quite pleased to see him, too.”
“That young brother is a Cainite,” Otto whispered. “I’m sure of it, as sure as I am of my own name.”
“And I do remember him, Brothers,” Reinhardt said grimly. “He’s a brother-knight at the Hospital of St. Mary’s. I heard the priest call him Brother Ulrich.”
“Then should we assume he will likely go back there later tonight? Or should we follow him and make sure?” Mathias asked.
“It’s in there with the priest,” Emil growled, glaring back toward the door.
Otto laid a hand on his arm. “Brother. You said it looked as though they had met before, right? Then, as sad as it may seem, this is likely a regular meeting. The danger to the priest right now is not to his life, but his soul.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Reinhardt asked, looking at Emil, who was commanding their little expedition.
Emil considered, then his eyes fell upon their horses, and the gear they’d packed in hopes of a successful hunt. “There’s a blind turn in the road halfway between the west gate and St. Mary’s, after you cross the bridge by the old mill,” he said thoughtfully. “Let’s arrange a little meeting there. Mathias, your crossbow will come in handy, I think. I want this bastard alive—he’s got a lot of questions to answer.”
“I feel I have been remiss in my duties as an envoy, Lady Rosamund.”
The satisfaction of watching Jervais humble himself had ceased to amuse Rosamund. The man had the hateful ability to couch a threat in an apology, and she expected another to be along shortly. He rarely appeared in her embassy with anything else in mind, it seemed. “How so, Maestro?”
“Although I presented apologies for past misunderstandings, I fear that I let words alone stand where actions should have been.” He dug into a pouch hanging from his belt, and pulled out a small folded square of silk, which he laid in one beefy palm and then delicately unfolded to reveal a polished silver coin the size of a penny but with unusual markings stamped in its surface. He extended his hand toward her. “Take it, milady. It’s far more than it appears, of course, but I promise it can do you no harm.”
Somewhat warily, she took the coin in her fingers and focused her vision on it until it was bright and clear even in the room’s flickering candlelight.
“It looks like an ordinary coin,” she said, looking at it closely. “Well, not entirely ordinary—not with these markings. Is this Greek?”
“Milady has a very good eye,” Jervais said smoothly. “There are some Greek characters, and others of a more occult nature, given the purpose for which the coin is created.”
She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow. “And what purpose is that?”
“It absorbs blood. Or, to be more precise, it absorbs the most powerful humors and energies from the blood, and so transforms it from Cainite blood with all its myriad arcane properties to something akin to merely mortal blood, having removed all those properties and drawn them into itself.”
“Oh. And then what do you do with it?”
“The coin has many potential uses after that, of course, but that’s not the point, milady. The point is that, with this coin under my tongue, I can drink the blood of any prince in all of Europe and the coin will ensure that its effect on me will be no more than if I drank from his lowliest mortal slave.”
“It prevents the sealing of the blood oath, then?” She looked at the coin again, a strange hope growing within her. Could this single little coin be her salvation? Dare she even consider such a risky notion, put her faith in the same Tremere who had conspired against her and enslaved Josselin’s errant childe? What price might he demand—and how had he guessed she might have need of such a thing?
“Exactly, milady. You see why it is a valuable trinket to have around. One never knows when one might find oneself in a difficult position, having no choice but to drink the blood of another of our kind. Yet, with this coin, it is possible to acquiesce gracefully, fulfill what is required, and suffer none of the anticipated ill effects.”
“It is a coin of high value indeed, then, Maestro.” She made as if to give it back to him, but he raised his hands, not accepting it.
“Keep it, milady,” he said grandly. “A token of my sorrow for having caused you embarrassment years ago, and thanks for all your recent efforts on my behalf.”
“You are most generous, Master Tremere.” She studied the coin warily, as if she expected to see whatever trick was hidden within it. “But why should I trust you?”
“For the simple reason, milady, that you have no choice. Believe me, it is not at all in my interest to deceive you on so great a matter. You are, for what it’s worth, my best advocate in this court—and I can indeed be generous to my friends. Keep the coin, milady. Tell me later how you value my friendship.”
She could see the victory in his eyes as her fingers closed over the coin—but he was right. She had no choice. “Be sure that I will, Master Tremere,” she said coolly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Magdeburg, Saxony
Feast of St. Henry, July, 1230
To the Lady Rosamund of Islington, Ambassador of the Rose to the court of Lord Jürgen Sword-Bearer in Magdeburg:
My dear childe,
I pray Lord Jürgen delivers this to you promptly, and that you forgive this indirect method of delivery, but from your previous letter, I feel it is most urgent that you see this letter and your guardian does not, for his suspicions are a danger to you in this matter. Therefore I have charged his lordship to put this in your own hands at some privy time, and I trust he will respect our desires, for you have said he is a Cainite of great honor.
I do not wish to alarm you unduly, but there are certain things I feel I must share with you as they may be of particular relevance to you now. You must realize, my dearest, that I was but a childe myself at the time of the Lady Lorraine’s untimely death and, being so young in the blood, was not privy to the discussions of our elders. But our cousin Helene, who recalls the time more clearly than I, told me that before Lord Tristan’s tragic attempt to rescue his beloved sister from Lord Alexander’s hands, he had received a letter from Lorraine, which subsequently found its way into Helene’s hands.
Based on what she has told me of that letter, and in light of what followed after, we are both quite certain that, by the time Tristan made his rescue attempt, Lord Alexander had already partaken of the Lady Lorraine’s blood three times. However, I do not believe the reverse was true, or Tristan would never have been able to persuade her to accompany him. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, the bond of blood was no protection for her, for it only served to inflame his desire for her further, so that his anger was so much the greater as well. When first he discovered she had fled, I recall hearing that he went straight away to her rooms and tore all her gowns to tatters in his fury. It was after that he went to see the sorceress Mnemach, and the results of that you know.
You see, my darling, why this is of import. I send you this warning now, in hopes that you may receive it before it is too late. The path before you is fraught with peril, far greater than I had ever anticipated or would have desired to set before you; now you must walk it with great care, lest history repeat itself and Lorraine’s fate becomes your own. Know also this: Lorraine was a fool, for she allowed herself to be ruled by her own passions rather than her wits, and she and Tristan paid the price of her folly in full measure. In that degree, at least, I believe you are better served than she, and that you will consider well the consequences of your actions even when great passion moves you. You have in all things ever been my greatest pupil, and I have every confidence you will not disappoint me even in this darkest night.
I worry now that I have sent Josselin to you, for I know the
re is great love between you, much as there was between Tristan and Lorraine. Yet I will not call him home, for you may yet have need of a champion beside you. As you hold his oath, I will therefore leave that decision in your hands. Remember only that the appearance of betrayal is just as dangerous to you as its actuality. Be forewarned and wise.
I remain as always, your loving sire,
—Isouda de Blaise, Queen of Love for Chartres, Blois and Anjou
“Something’s wrong,” Josselin said. “Do you feel it?”
Rosamund took a slow, deep breath and closed her eyes, trying to pay more attention to things she couldn’t quite hear, smell or see. There it was, a slight uneasiness on the edge of her consciousness, an elusive shadow that felt distinctly wrong. Having so identified it, she could feel it even when she opened her eyes again and saw the familiar whitewashed walls of Lord Jürgen’s council chamber. “Yes.”
“They’re singing a full mass in the church. Listen.”
“For compline?” Rosamund focused her attention in the direction of the church. Yes, there it was—the full, rich sound of male voices, the rise and fall of chant. Odd, for an evening office. And then, louder, harsher on her ears, the sound of footsteps, several pairs of leather-clad feet on stone in irregular rhythm, coming closer.
She refocused hastily, snapping back to regular perceptions, rising to her feet as the doors opened and then dropping into an effortless reverence as Jürgen swept in, followed by Christof, Father Erasmus, two other brothers Rosamund did not recognize, and, much to her surprise, Brother Renaud.
“Milady Rosamund, Herr Josselin,” Jürgen motioned them up. “I thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, join us.”
Josselin took her hand, and led her around the far side of the long, polished table. At Jürgen’s nod, he assisted Rosamund to sit at the prince’s left hand, then took a seat beside her. Renaud and Father Erasmus sat down on Josselin’s other side, and Christof and the two unnamed brothers sat to Lord Jürgen’s right. The feeling of something wrong persisted, even in their seating arrangements; yet it took Rosamund a moment to realize who was missing.
“Brothers, I have asked Lady Rosamund and Herr Josselin to join us, for the matter before us may extend beyond our brotherhood, and I value their counsel. Milady, milord, this is Brother Hermann and Brother Rudiger, who lead other houses in our Order of the Black Cross in Saxony.
“I find myself in need of your counsel, on a matter that may present dire consequences to us all. Yet, because of the potential risk involved, I would ask that none here speak of this matter to others, either Cainite or mortal, without my leave. And Wiftet, if you will kindly just sit down—”
Rosamund didn’t see exactly where the fool had come from—perhaps he had even been hiding in his lord’s shadow the entire time. But now he did as he was told, and sat at the far end of the table, looking a bit abashed.
“For those of you who know our situation, I would beg your patience as I make others here also acquainted with it. The Order of the Black Cross attends mass this night, and for many nights to come, for the souls of a number of our recently departed brethren now gathered to the bosom of Our Lord: those who fell in a grievous battle eight weeks ago in Livonia, of whom our brother Renaud has journeyed through many dangers to bring me word this evening; and for three brothers lost but two nights past here in Magdeburg, including one of my own blood.”
Ulrich, destroyed? Rosamund heard the rough undertone to his voice, and felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Ulrich’s sire, whose responsibilities as prince and grand master of the Order of the Black Cross did not permit him time even to attend the mass held in his childe’s name. “Be assured, milord,” she said, her heart leading her before her mind had even formed the words, “that I, my brother, and the Courts of Love extend our most sincere condolences to you and the order for these terrible losses, and know that their names shall be in our prayers as well.”
She did not remember moving her hand—somehow as she spoke it had traveled of its own will, and now rested lightly on Jürgen’s left arm where it lay on the table. It was a rather forward and personal gesture to make to a prince in front of his council, and yet to withdraw it now would be to admit the gaffe, which would be even more embarrassing.
But then Jürgen turned to her, and laid his right hand over hers. “We thank you, Lady Rosamund, for your kind words and your prayers. Both are most welcome and appreciated.”
His gaze only met hers for an instant, but in that instant he had rescued her from herself, and even thanked her for it; even as he removed his hand and she reclaimed hers, something of his touch lingered in her skin, and an echo of warmth like a summer breeze touched her soul. She clasped her hands on the table in front of her to keep them from any further mischief, and forced herself to focus on Jürgen’s words, not his profile.
“We will not forget what has occurred on distant battlefields,” the prince continued, “but it is the latter and more recent attack that now concerns me, for this danger reaches beyond the order’s own ranks to any Cainite in our realm.
“Brother Ulrich and his mortal brethren were ambushed on the road, halfway between Magdeburg and this monastery, by a band of armed men wielding crossbows. Though they in cowardice disguised themselves, we have since identified them as members of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Cross of the Passion of Acre, an order founded and still headed by Herr Gauthier de Dampiere… whom some of us here have cause to remember with no fondness.”
The name meant nothing to Rosamund, but she heard Josselin inhale softly, and saw recognition in the eyes of the other brother-commanders.
“Brother Ulrich’s squire escaped the ambush, and so was able to report back to us. Having determined where his assailants took him, Brother Christof and some of the brethren, including our Brother Renaud, attempted a raid upon their house, in order to rescue our brothers.”
At a nod from Jürgen, Christof picked up the story. “Our mission failed, tragically. Brother Ulrich was slain by his captors, as was another Cainite brother in our company. They were not many, but they wielded a power…” Christof paused. Rosamund could see the worry and guilt upon the knight’s youthful face, and shame as well—she suspected Christof was not accustomed to failure. “A holy power similar to that wielded by Gauthier himself.”
“Holy power?” Father Erasmus asked. “Just because a man does something extraordinary does not make him holy, Brother. Even if he is in the Church. Not all mortals who serve Cainites realize from what source their abilities spring.”
“With all due respect, Father,” Christof said, a bit tightly, “you were not there.”
Jürgen raised his hand, halting further discussion on that issue. “Herr Gauthier, for those of you who have not yet had cause to learn of him, is a mortal Templar of extraordinary tenacity, who has taken upon himself a mission from God—to destroy every last one of the childer of Caine.”
A French name, thought Rosamund and remembered the stories she had been told of red-robed monks hunting Cainites in Paris before her arrival. But he’s a knight, not one of the Red Brothers. Still… the Temple in Paris…
“We first encountered him near Acre, during the last crusade,” Christof continued. “He destroyed three of our number, including Baron Heinrich, who was our primary advocate in the Hungarian court. Since that time, Herr Gauthier has persuaded the Holy Father in Rome to bless his new order of Poor Knights, who wear a broken red cross on their tunics in honor of the fragment of the True Cross their Grand Master is said to have recovered in Acre. Officially, their mission is to protect pilgrims and holy shrines. However, it is now clear that their true purpose in fact supports their founder’s vendetta against any and all Cainites whose existence he can uncover.”
“And apparently he has now uncovered us,” Jürgen said.
“If I may, milord,” Josselin said, leaning forward.
Lord Jürgen nodded. “Speak.”
“If this is the same Gauthier de Dampi
ere of whom I have heard tales, milord, he is not a young man. He was one of those who answered the call to crusade in the Languedoc twenty years ago, and destroyed a number of Cainites during his time there, of both high blood and low.”
“Whether low blood or high,” Wiftet murmured from the other end of the table, “when it spills on the ground, or runs in a dark river down the bright blade, or blows away as ash on the wind. It is all the same color, then. But the good knight gives us all the same regard in the end, and it is a most final end.”
“If you will pardon the interruption, milord.” The voice was feminine, low and husky, with an exotic lilt Rosamund could not identify—and to realize she was not the only woman in the room was an even greater shock. “I believe I have learned some things that you will find of interest.”
A slightly built figure stood at the far end of the table, swathed and veiled from head to foot in ragged black linen. Given the manner in which she had simply appeared out of nowhere, and the total veiling of her face, Rosamund could guess the newcomer to be Nosferatu, in which case the veil was a mercy. Even so, Wiftet immediately got up and offered her his seat, with a gallant bow.
“Akuji, welcome.” Lord Jürgen, at least, did not seem surprised to have a veiled stranger appearing out of nowhere at his council table.
Now she took the seat Wiftet offered and joined them at the table. “For the good news, milords, milady, Brothers, I have learned that Herr Gauthier himself is not in Magdeburg. These men are, however, here under his authority. I counted eight knightly brothers, a dozen or so squires, and thirty men-at-arms, a priest, and the expected number of other servants to maintain such a number of fighting men—a goodly number.” She paused for a moment. “I fear the remainder of my news is less encouraging. Herr Gauthier has a patron high in the church—although there are but a few of them here now, the men spoke of a cardinal giving a great and holy commission to their entire order, from which they derive their determination, and their support.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 21