He was dimly aware of voices elsewhere in the house, of Sir Thomas answering the door, admitting someone to the house: “No, milord, he’s not here at the moment. No, milady isn’t either—have you a message?”
When Alexander dropped Peter to the floor, he curled up into a pathetic little ball of something that had once been a man, lying in a puddle of his own piss, and begged God for forgiveness.
It was raining hard, and Lucien was soaked to the skin by the time he reached Magdeburg and the Embassy of the Rose. Jervais had been in another foul mood this evening, determined that his repeated “kindnesses” to Lady Rosamund should finally be repaid. He was only slowly learning the arts of diplomatic patience, and it seemed that Lucien always bore the brunt of the learning process. Please, please, Lucien pleaded with a usually less than merciful God. Let him not be there. I can’t face him again, I really can’t—I can bear anything else, but not the way he looks at me….
God, in His usual mockery of Lucien’s faith, did indeed answer his prayer—when he arrived at Rosamund’s embassy, Josselin was not there.
Unfortunately, someone else was.
Lucien had never met Alexander before, but he’d heard all the rumors. He was not at all happy—or surprised—to find out how many of them were true.
“So.” Alexander ripped open the letter Lucien had come to deliver, ignoring the fact it was not addressed to him, and scanned the contents. “My sweet lady has not yet learned her lesson, if she is still trafficking with the Tremere. But you—” He looked up and Lucien felt a cold chill run through his blood. “You’re not Tremere. Who are you?”
“No one, milord—” Lucien started to say, but his voice was no longer his own. That same voice that had once led to his first death and subsequent rebirth at Josselin’s hands now betrayed him one more time, spilling the entire story of his wretched existence to the prince in whose court he had been condemned.
Alexander was still as a statue during his recitation but, when it was over, he smiled. “Ah, that explains a great deal. Now, what to do with you—”
Lucien knew it would be useless to run, but he lacked the courage to face his doom head-on. He broke for the door, but Alexander was faster yet, and thrust a dagger with a blade of polished rowan through his heart before he’d gone three steps. The only other mercy God granted him that night was that by the time his sire and Lady Rosamund returned to their haven and learned what had occurred, he and his captor were long since gone.
Jervais bani Tremere was not pleased, not at all. The good news was that he’d finally received acknowledgment of his presence, and actually been summoned to present himself formally before Lord Jürgen’s court. The bad news was that the summons had to do with the capture of Lucien de Troyes, who had doubtless squealed like a stuck pig about just who had been protecting his sorry corpus for the past seventeen years. Threatening to surrender Lucien to the Queens of Love’s justice had been a useful stratagem. Actually losing him was intolerable. Although at least this explained why he hadn’t come back with an answer to that particular message. Jervais had begun to wonder if Lucien’s sire had staked the little bastard and shoved him in a box to save him from the big bad Tremere.
Now Lucien’s sire—and indeed, what looked like all the Cainites in Magdeburg—watched as Jervais stood before Lord Jürgen’s cold-eyed gaze and answered questions about his miscreant servant. There was no question of Lucien’s fate, of course. Jürgen had too many vassals watching him tonight to pay heed to pleas for mercy, even from Rosamund’s rosy lips. It was just Lucien’s poor luck to become Alexander’s object lesson to his lady on the price of dealing with the Tremere—and the sly bastard had even managed to do it in a way that Lord Jürgen would bear the blame of the execution.
Jervais remembered what he had given Rosamund weeks before, and hoped she would yet find it useful—as paltry an attempt at vengeance against Alexander as it was, it was the best he could do for the moment. He did not look at Lucien himself, manacled hand and foot, on his knees on the wooden platform that served as both dais and likely execution stage.
“Well, Master Tremere?” Jürgen asked.
Well, there was really nothing else he could do but put the best face he could on it. “Your Highness,” he said smoothly, “I am shocked and grieved at the accusations against my servant Lucien de Troyes, but I cannot in good conscience dispute or defy the condemnation and just sentence proclaimed by the Queen of Chartres. I therefore renounce my lordship of this person and respectfully remand him to your justice, milord, so that the sentence of blood may be duly carried out.” He bowed.
“Very well, Maestro,” Lord Jürgen said. “You may step down.” Jervais did so, and returned to his place among others gathered there in the courtyard.
Rosamund laid her hand on Josselin’s arm, hoping to soothe him. As he had in their sire’s court, he had pleaded with Jürgen for Lucien to be spared, but she also knew that mercy at this point was not politically feasible—and although she would never say it to Josselin, sparing Lucien might be more cruel than kind. Spare him for what? Eternity as a Tremere thrall? What kind of mercy is that?
The onlookers were still, even the mortals barely breathing, as Lord Jürgen stood and surveyed the prisoner, his loyal warrior monks, and the rest of the crowd of witnesses.
“I will not dispute Queen Isouda’s judgment,” Jürgen said at last. “Lucien de Troyes stands under a sentence of Final Death, and that sentence must be carried out.” He glanced at Rosamund. “I am sorry, milady. The sentence stands.”
On the platform, Lucien was silent, his hands clenching and unclenching, his face gaunt and bloodless. The manacles on his wrists clinked softly.
“Milord.” Josselin’s voice rang out over the murmurings, and silenced them. “I am his sire. The right of destruction is mine.”
Josselin, no, don’t punish yourself—Rosamund shook her head, fighting tears.
“Do you claim that right in order to carry it out, Sir Josselin?” Jürgen asked.
“Yes, milord.” Josselin said. His eyes were on Lucien, who was staring at him in turn. “I will do it, by your leave.”
Jürgen studied him for a moment, and then nodded. “You have my leave. But it must be witnessed here, so that all may see the sentence was carried out.”
Josselin nodded. “Thank you, milord.” He mounted the platform, offered Jürgen a low, respectful bow, then glanced at Father Erasmus, standing among the Black Cross brothers. “Father. Might he have the rites?”
“Of course,” the priest said, and went to kneel by Lucien’s side. Rosamund could have heard what they whispered between them if she had wished, but she did not. A novice of the order brought what was needed, and Father Erasmus touched the elements of the Eucharist to Lucien’s tongue—as close as any Cainite could come to receiving the Holy Communion—and anointed his eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and hands with oil, then laid a hand on his head for a blessing.
The gathered witnesses were silent during the rite—likely more because of Jürgen’s steady gaze over them than any respect for the prisoner’s belated show of piety. When Erasmus was finished, he took Lucien’s hands and raised him up to his feet. “Stand, my son,” he murmured softly, “and hold fast to your faith, and may God have mercy on your soul.” Then he returned to his place with the brothers, leaving Lucien to face Josselin alone.
Christof drew his sword, and offered it hilt first to Josselin, who was unarmed. Josselin accepted it, and approached Lucien, who was weeping now. Gently, he smoothed the prisoner’s hair, drew him close until their foreheads touched. “Forgive me, Lucien,” he whispered. “This was never what I intended for you.”
“Please.” Lucien’s voice was barely audible even from inches away. “I’m still afraid—”
“Be at peace, my son,” Josselin pressed a kiss to his childe’s forehead, his fingers sliding into Lucien’s hair. “It won’t hurt. I promise.” Then he pulled Lucien’s head back and sank his fangs into the prisoner’s thr
oat.
Lucien’s eyes closed with a soft sigh, and he surrendered willingly to Josselin’s kiss, his knees buckling so that all that held him upright was Josselin’s grip in his hair. For a long, stretched-out moment, Josselin held him there, until Rosamund wondered if he meant to drink Lucien dry, or worse….
But then Lucien’s body was collapsing lifelessly to the platform, his head falling after it and rolling a short distance away. Josselin was standing over him with a bloody sword, dark tears streaming down his own cheeks; his stroke had been so fast that it was likely Lucien had never even seen it coming.
“It is done, milord,” Josselin said hoarsely. Then he dropped the sword where he stood, turned and strode quickly off the platform and disappeared into the cloister beyond.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Magdeburg, Saxony
Near the Feast of St. Francis, September, 1230
Every night of the following two weeks, Rosamund rose hoping to see Peter waiting for her, his head bent over his vade mecum, ready to report the doings of the day. She visited him several times during the night, stroked his hair and spoke to him gently, telling him how much she missed his company. He did not, however, seem to hear. Blanche cared for him diligently, like a daughter for her father, persuading him to eat a little, helping him to the chamber pot, getting him into a clean shirt. But otherwise he would not rise from the bed.
Once Katherine had suggested, in as kindly a manner as she possessed, that perhaps Peter would not recover, that she should consider seeking another secretary. Rosamund had slapped her in sudden fury, and might have done worse had Josselin not caught her and sent the weeping servant out of the room.
That Alexander was as much to blame for Peter’s deep malaise as Lucien’s death, Rosamund did not doubt; not even Katherine denied that he had been here that night. Therefore when she heard horses in the yard and sensed his presence approaching, she was filled more with a sense of dread than of joy. She sent Blanche to sit with Peter and instructed her to keep the door shut, and prepared to greet her lord.
“My dearest rose,” Alexander said softly. “You do not know how it grieves me to see you so sad, especially when I fear you see me as the cause, however unjustly.”
“Unjustly, milord?” Rosamund failed to keep all the bitterness out of her voice. “My kinsman is executed, and my servant ill.”
“It was not I who condemned him, sweet rose,” Alexander murmured. “Lord Jürgen could have spared him—have you ever asked yourself why he did not? And as for your servant—no one regrets that more than I. But he failed in his duty to you, my love. He needed to be taught a lesson, which I do hope he will learn and profit from.”
The tone of his voice brought Rosamund back to her senses. Peter might not be the only one Alexander thought needed lessoning. Was Margery a lesson too? A cold chill touched her spine. He came looking for me, and Peter suffered for it. “Still, milord,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady, “I wish you had left that to me, rather than depriving me of his services.”
Alexander came up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders, bending slightly to nuzzle at her neck. “Then I’ll find you a new secretary, my rose. Mortals come and go in our service, Rosamund. Truly, one is very much like another, in the end.” His fingers found the lacing of her cotte, and unknotted it, pulling it free.
“You’re very kind, milord,” Rosamund whispered, “but I am not ready to give him up just yet, when he is so… so well trained. Milord—”
He turned her around gently to face him, framed her face between his hands. “I’ve waited for you so long, my queen, my Venus,” he whispered. “I will not wait any longer.”
The hunger in his eyes sent a thrill of desire down her spine to go with the fear, and opened up a great emptiness somewhere deep in her belly. She felt her own fangs extending, aching for his flesh the way his lips and hands now ached for hers. She knew his intent then, and both feared and desired it with an intensity that frightened her. She no longer knew where her feelings were coming from, whether from her own heart or from the force of his personality overwhelming her own through his dark gaze.
It was all she could do to remember the coin Jervais had given her, to struggle to focus on finding a way to get to it before it was too late. It’s only the second… I don’t absolutely need it yet… but if I don’t use it now, will I have opportunity or thought for it the next time?
Somehow she managed to settle him on the bed, while she made something of a show of disrobing herself for his pleasure—this had once held her mortal lovers spellbound, and even Alexander seemed content merely to watch her for the moment. Veiled only in her hair, she removed her rings one at a time; then, bending low over her jewelry chest, her back to him so he couldn’t see, she slipped the coin under her tongue.
Then she stood upright again, slowly arranged her hair to fall over her shoulders, back and breasts in a graceful, copper-gold veil. Venus. I must be Venus to him now…. But it was her own hunger as much as his that drew her now into his arms. His blood was as the nectar of the gods itself, sweet beyond description, flooding her veins with his power; when he took her at last, his fangs piercing her flesh, she would have given of herself until he had taken it all, such was the worship his kiss demanded of her.
Only after he had gone the following evening did she dare take the coin out from under her tongue, and noticed that the coin was now strangely heavy for its size, and the once-bright silver had turned totally black.
“Rosamund—” Josselin stared at the blackened coin on its piece of silk, and shook his head incredulously. “How could you even think of trusting anything he gives you? Is that why you didn’t tell me about this before—because you knew what I’d say?”
“But it worked! Look at it! It must have worked, to change color like that! I am sorry, Josselin. I know I should have told you. I—I didn’t want to upset you, not that night. And then it… just never seemed a good time. Please forgive me?” She came up behind where he sat at the table and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Please?”
He caught her hands in his and kissed them. “Of course, ma petite. Our Lady knows I’ve done worse. And he’s got a lot of damned gall thinking he can just…” His voice trailed off.
“It was only the second time,” she said, sitting on the bench beside him. “So it’s like I’ve only drunk from him once—”
“Twice, milady.” The voice was hoarse, but steady. Rosamund and Josselin turned around. “Twice before last night.”
“Peter!” Rosamund jumped up and ran to him, flinging her arms around him; hesitantly, the mortal enfolded her in his arms as well. “It’s so good to hear your voice again—come, sit down, you’re still shaking….” She guided him to the table, and Josselin pushed a bench out for Peter to sit down on.
“What do you mean, twice?” Josselin asked. “Do you know what happened here last night?”
Peter nodded. “I heard him come. Last night. And before.”
“Before?” Rosamund echoed.
“Yes, milady. Last year. When he said it didn’t happen. I heard him say that to you. ‘It didn’t happen.’ And you agreed it didn’t. And I wrote it down. In case he told me too, but he never did.”
“It didn’t happen…” Rosamund frowned and repeated it, trying to remember.
“You’re sure of this, Peter?” Josselin asked.
“I wrote it down,” Peter repeated. He was clutching one of his journals in one hand; he now laid it on the table and opened it to a particular page, turning it for Rosamund to read. “If—if you’ll forgive me, milady. I hear everything that goes on in your chamber, if I’m awake.”
Rosamund studied Peter’s journal entry, then looked up at Josselin, eyes growing wider. “But if he said it didn’t happen….”
“Then it did,” Josselin repeated grimly. He looked at the blackened coin. “You were spared the effects of the oath of blood, at least this time, but Alexander—”
“—Alexander
is now likely oathbound to me,” Rosamund finished for him. “Holy Mary.”
“It’s like what Isouda said in her letter,” Josselin started. “When Lorraine—”
“I am not Lorraine!” Rosamund shot up to her feet and slammed her hand flat on the table hard enough to make the Tremere coin jump. “I am not Lorraine, and you are not Tristan, and I will not hear otherwise! This is one story that will not be retold, Josselin. It will not happen. Don’t even think about it! Do you understand me?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Yes, milady,” he agreed at last. His retreat into formality, the sudden hurt in his eyes, was like a splash of cold water on her temper.
She sank down again on the bench and reached across to him, taking his hand. His fingers curled around hers, protectively.
“There’s only one sure way to avoid the bond, Rosamund,” he said at last. “At least with him. If you would accept it from m—from someone else—” He hesitated, and did not finish the thought, although Rosamund had already heard it. From me.
—I know there is great love between you, much as there was between Tristan and Lorraine…. As you hold his oath, I will therefore leave that decision in your hands.
“I know,” Rosamund said. “But I can’t. And it’s not that I don’t trust you, Josselin—I do, you know that. But the way our Lady’s letter described it, she said Alexander had drunk from Lorraine three times, and so was bound. She didn’t say if Lorraine had also drunk from Alexander, or if she was bound—but if she ran away with Tristan…”
Josselin finished that thought for her. “What if Tristan and Lorraine thought of that too?”
“They’ve made their attempts at St. Mary’s twice now,” Christof reported. “During the day, of course, and only two or three of them at a time. So far, they’ve not gotten inside. They’ve been watching the road, too.”
“Yes, I noticed them the last time I was there.” Josselin agreed. “I went around them, of course, and they never saw me.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 23