Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Janet Trautvetter

  “Josselin, you didn’t say anything about that before!” Rosamund pushed down a rise of panic. Holy Mary, Mother of God, I cannot bear to lose him too. It had been a strain on her nerves just to walk the length of the street from their house to the priory, watching for the Poor Knights to come after them.

  “Don’t worry, milady,” Josselin assured her. “I can see them far better than they can see me—they won’t catch me by surprise.”

  “Still, we’ve had to be very careful,” Christof continued. “Our mortal agents are on alert and avoid their notice; our brothers have been given special dispensation to wear a plain black habit when they must leave the commandery. So far God has been merciful, and no more of our number have fallen into their hands. It’s not quite a siege, but it’s close.”

  “But the walls of St. Mary’s are very strong,” Rosamund said. “And there are only a few of them—how can they expect to lay siege?”

  “Lay siege to what?” asked Wiftet. “Who?”

  “The Poor Knights of Acre,” Rosamund explained. “How will they lay siege to St. Mary’s?”

  “Like the Israelites at Jericho,” Wiftet said, jumping up to his feet. He began to skip around the table where they sat. “Around and around, with horns blowing, seven times around, and then—”

  “Wiftet,” Father Erasmus said in a stern voice. “Stop play-acting and sit down.”

  “But the walls will come tumbling down!”

  “That’s what they said at the siege of Jerusalem, too—I wasn’t there, but I did hear of it once from someone who was,” Christof mused. “They fasted and prayed, and marched around the walls—and the city did fall, though the walls remained quite intact.”

  “But Jericho was given to the Israelites by God,” Erasmus reminded them. “It was a miracle.”

  “Gauthier’s knights would believe in miracles,” Josselin pointed out. “I daresay they’re even praying for one.”

  “So are we,” Christof said wryly. “Unless it is God’s will that we become ashes on the wind, and I pray that it is not.”

  Ashes on the wind. Olivier’s hose extending out of his empty tunic, filled with ashes. Lucien’s ashes mixed with bits of charred bone…

  “Then perhaps they should get what they pray for,” Rosamund said suddenly. “And so should we. Brother Christof, you were prepared to sacrifice your own men to give the Poor Knights the victory they need to convince them they’ve won—what if God gave them their victory instead, without need for your sacrifices?”

  Christof gave her an odd look. “I’m not following your thoughts, milady,” he said. “Elaborate, if you will. How would God give them their victory?”

  “You said it yourself, Brother,” Rosamund said, trying to contain her excitement. It was a wild idea, but if the Poor Knights could be persuaded to believe, it might even work. “If it is God’s will that we become ashes on the wind…”

  Lord Jürgen had never been one to scoff at unorthodox tactics if they gained him what he wanted, yet Lucretia was not sure how even he would receive Rosamund’s plan, which was nothing if not unorthodox. Still he listened as she explained it to him, which was to his credit.

  “You’re talking about abandoning St. Mary’s, of course,” he mused aloud when she was finished, “but that was inevitable no matter what solution we chose to pursue. They know this place now and, with the Virgin’s blessing, it will be the only haven of ours they ever find, now that we know to look for them. And we are sending a greater force to Livonia next season, as you know—which will empty a good number of our houses in Saxony and send our brothers out of their reach.”

  “Sending them away from one danger, and into another, but at least one we can fight openly and in clear conscience,” Lucretia agreed. “I confess, milord, it goes against my grain to favor deception over something more straightforward and honest, but at least her plan spares many whom we can put to better use in Livonia, or otherwise pursuing God’s work.”

  “And have you not thought, Sister, that perhaps these Poor Knights of Gauthier’s also pursue God’s work?”

  “I have, sir. But Father Erasmus believes them misguided. It is the Heresy they truly seek, not us. They do not understand how even Cainites play a part in the Lord’s plan.”

  “Nor do I imagine they will listen should one of us attempt to explain it,” Jürgen replied. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “They will not be easy to convince, these knights. They will suspect a trap; it would take a visitation from Heaven to persuade them to believe.”

  “With your permission, milord,” Lucretia said dryly, “I believe a visitation from Heaven is exactly what she has in mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  In the weeks before the Feast of St. Michael,

  September, 1230

  “Again,” Father Erasmus said. “Try not to sound so French. Nolite timere, unless there’s only one present, so that would be what?”

  “Ne timeas, quoniam exaudita est deprecatio tua,” Josselin repeated, trying to imitate the priest’s pronunciation exactly. It sounded German to his ears, but he supposed the knights, being German themselves, wouldn’t notice that. Rosamund’s Latin was better, but Josselin had adamantly forbidden her to play this most dangerous part in their plan, and even Father Erasmus had agreed that all the angels in scripture at least appeared as male.

  Josselin adjusted his finery, evening out the folds of the white samite hanging from his belt and smoothing the velvet mantle over his shoulders. He was unarmed, barefoot and bareheaded, his hair falling down to his shoulders, his long, flowing white raiment inspired by scriptural illuminations and Wiftet’s descriptions of the costumes from Christmas plays.

  Rosamund studied the effect with a careful eye. “You look like a prince of Heaven indeed—but you need a little color in your cheeks. Hold still.” With a tuft of ermine fur, she brushed colored powder over his forehead, nose, cheeks, jaw line and throat, to hide the pallor of his flesh. “There. That’s better.”

  “You’d best be going, milady,” Father Erasmus told her. “Akuji will lead them here soon.”

  “Be careful, and God keep you safe,” she wished them. But she paused for a moment to look up at the high stone walls of the unfinished Cathedral of St. Maurice and St. Catherine, soaring so high as to seem to support the very night sky, for the roof had not yet been added. Beautiful… It wasn’t Chartres, of course, but there was still something elegant and proud in the very stone—

  “Rosamund.” Josselin’s hands rested gently on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, petite, but tonight is not a good night for contemplation. Go on, now.”

  She nodded and reluctantly allowed Peter and Thomas to lead her back to the relatively safety of the house. Holy Mary, Mother of God, watch over him.

  “An angel? Which one? Where?”

  “What did he say?”

  “How did you know—”

  “Wait, wait, Brothers!” Herr Manfred waded into the knot of Poor Knights of Acre surrounding Matthias and Reinhardt, holding his hands up for attention. “Let’s have a little order here, shall we? Everyone to the chapter hall, and we’ll hear it from the beginning, and then judge.”

  “What’s happened?” Otto asked, coming in late, buckling his belt over his hastily donned tunic. Adam had awakened him at the first hint of something going on, but it was not the first time he’d nearly been left out because, as a layman, he did not share the knights’ common dormitory.

  “Reinhardt and Matthias saw an angel at the cathedral,” Brother Gregor told him.

  “The cathedral? But it’s just a half-finished shell, it’s not even got a roof yet, much less consecration from the bishop—” Otto followed the brothers into the chapter hall, and found himself a seat in the back.

  “We were coming back from nocturns at St. Sebastian’s,” Brother Matthias explained, “and it was the strangest thing. Our horses stopped, just stopped, right there in the street. And then they turned and start
ed down another street entirely! Of course, we tried to turn them, but nothing availed us—the beasts would not heed us one jot. So Brother Reinhardt suggested we see where they were leading us, because surely as God granted Balaam’s ass the gift of speech, which as you know, Brother, He did, because—”

  “One story at a time, Brother Matthias,” Manfred interrupted. “The horses led you to the cathedral?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matthias continued. “Right up to the very doors—or where the doors would be if they were built, of course. And they stopped right there, where the foundations begin, and would go no farther. But Brother Reinhardt saw a light within the cathedral itself, which we thought was odd, so we went to investigate.”

  “And that’s when you saw the angel?”

  “Yes. He was standing in the choir, near where the altar will be, just beyond the crossing. There wasn’t any altar, or cross, but there were candles—a whole ring of them where he stood. His raiment was white as snow, and he was beautiful, just as in the scriptures. Reinhardt and I fell to our knees right where we stood.”

  “Beautiful,” Reinhardt murmured, softly, massaging the stump of his arm with his remaining hand. “He smiled and spoke to us.”

  “What did he say?” Brother Emil interrupted. He actually sounded a bit jealous, Otto thought. Why, of all the brothers in the house, did God’s angel appear to these two and no other, not even Emil himself?

  “Well, first he said not to be afraid, for our prayers had been heard,” Matthias continued. “Then he said that God will give us the victory over the forces of the Devil, if we but followed His instructions exactly, even—even as what, Reinhardt? I fear my memory is failing, I am a poor vessel for such a holy message!”

  “Even as He gave victory to the Israelites over the city of Jericho, and caused the walls to come tumbling down,” Reinhardt put in, “so shall he give us victory over the minions of Hell who hide among the knights of Heaven.”

  That statement resulted in cheers and praises to God from the other knights, which Herr Manfred allowed for a moment before raising his hands for silence again to get the rest of the story. “What instructions, Brother Matthias?” he asked. “Whatever else your memory fails on, let it not be that.”

  “Oh, no, commander,” Matthias assured him. “I remember that exactly as he told it to us.”

  “Milady.” Jervais smiled warmly—at least as warmly as he could manage—and bowed. “What a pleasant surprise. I was expecting his Highness of course….”

  Rosamund smiled apologetically. “His Highness was called away, unfortunately. He asked me to meet with you in his stead.” It was even mostly true, although Lord Jürgen had sent the invitation to Jervais only at her request.

  Jervais was no fool. His eyes narrowed slightly, warily. “Ah. A pity,” he said smoothly. “What I had to tell him was more of a military nature, quite unsuited for such delicate ears as yours, milady. But if his Highness is occupied, perhaps I can come another time. I will bid you a good evening then, milady, and hope that his Highness will remember me again sometime in the future.” He turned as if to go.

  “It turned black,” Rosamund said casually, and had the pleasure of seeing his departure freeze in mid-stride and his attitude shift from annoyed to amiable in the space of a single breath.

  “What turned black, milady?” he asked, turning back again.

  “I’m sure you remember.” She took the little packet of silk out of a pouch at her belt and unfolded it on her hand, so that the tarnished coin was visible—she had chosen a piece of white silk to wrap it in, so the coin’s change would show clearly.

  “You used it,” Jervais murmured, and came closer, drawn by the coin as if by a lodestone. But when he reached out one broad, fleshy hand towards it, Rosamund closed her fingers and the silk around the coin and withdrew it from his reach.

  “I fear it only works one time, milady,” he said softly. “I can create another, of course, but I would need that one to work from….”

  That was likely a lie; he’d certainly created the first one easily enough, although how he’d known that such an amulet would be of use to her she hadn’t yet determined. Still, he wanted it back, now that it had tasted Alexander’s potent blood—and a good diplomat negotiated with the coin she had.

  “I’m sure.” Rosamund refolded the silk around the coin and kept it firmly in her hand. “What did you have to tell his Highness, Maestro? Something of a military nature, you said?”

  “Yes, milady,” the Tremere admitted. “I did. I understand his Highness is planning a campaign in Livonia—do not look surprised, Lady Rosamund, I’d be a poor diplomat if I didn’t have a few other sources to bring me the news, or to know what is on his Highness’s mind. His Highness is considering undertaking a crusade against the pagans on the Baltic coastlands—no surprise, as the Teutonic Order was invited there, and is already engaged. And I have heard that his Highness recently suffered a loss in that region as well. An entire troop of his much-vaunted Knights of the Black Cross, slaughtered by a barbarian warlord. Naturally, his Highness will not let such a deed go unanswered in Livonia any more than he did in Hungary—am I right thus far?”

  “So far,” Rosamund agreed.

  “The Knights of the Black Cross are certainly brave and highly skilled,” Jervais continued, “but they will find Livonia a hostile territory. The ground is treacherous, often wet and filled with bogs, dangerous for horses. In the winter, the rivers, ground and the sea itself are frozen, and the cold is bitter even for Cainite blood. The pagan tribes are treacherous as well, and cannot be trusted. This barbarian warlord, this Qarakh, now leads the Cainites in the region like a prince, and defies the crusader troops sent against him.”

  “Yes, I’m sure his Highness knows that much already,” Rosamund said.

  “And the Telyavic sorcerers that are Qarakh’s allies, milady? Does his Highness know about them?”

  “Sorcerers?” Rosamund raised one eyebrow. “Sorcerers of the blood?”

  His eyes flicked to the silk-wrapped coin in her hand, and back again. “You do realize how important this is, Lady Rosamund,” he said. “You wouldn’t want Lord Jürgen to go to Livonia unprepared for such a thing. I trust that you will convey to his Highness the willingness of House and Clan Tremere to assist him in this matter—especially when it comes to other sorcerers. Swords alone won’t bring him victory—any more than they did in Hungary.”

  “Now, that is of military interest,” Rosamund agreed. She seated herself on a bench, and laid the coin beside her like a promise. “Tell me more.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Magdeburg, Saxony

  Feast of St. Michael, September, 1230

  Seven days. For seven days, the Poor Knights had done as their angel had bidden them: They had come in their silent procession and circled the fortified monastery that was St. Mary’s, once the first day, then twice on the second, thrice on the third day, and so on for the entire week. The first day, the procession had been as the bells had rung nocturns, in the dead of the night; the second day’s procession had been at lauds, in the early dawn; the third had been at prime, and so on through the monastic hours of the day. Now, the night of the eighth day had come, and the knights would be expecting the angel’s promise to be fulfilled.

  Brother Renaud had not been the only Black Cross novice assigned to keep watch on the Poor Knight’s commandery over the past seven nights, but he had asked for tonight’s vigil because of its importance, and Christof had granted it. His woodcraft was better than that of the other novices due to Sighard’s training, and his night sight was keener. Several of his fellows had even said his eyes glowed red, which he remembered Sighard’s doing as well.

  The time given for the fulfillment of the angel’s promise was nocturns as well, but apparently the Poor Knights were taking no chances—Renaud spotted two horsemen leaving the commandery’s gates a full three hours before he expected the knights to assemble for their final battle. Scouts? They had not don
e this before; he wondered if perhaps the Poor Knights might deviate even further from the plan. “I’m going to follow them,” he whispered to his fellow novice and watcher, Brother Tancred. “The Lord Marshal must be warned.”

  “We’re not supposed to split up!” Tancred reminded him. “We should both go.”

  “And then who would be watching the gate? Rorick and Stefan are too far away to see it. You need to stay here. I’ll be fine.”

  Tancred couldn’t argue with that. “God keep you then. Be careful!”

  Renaud clapped a hand on his shoulder, then slipped back through the woods to where they’d left their horses. He untied his own, then turned and realized he was no longer alone.

  “Renaud,” Alexander murmured. “What a fortuitous meeting this is—though not for you, perhaps.

  “István, now.”

  There was the deep thrum of a bowstring. The force of the bolt drove Renaud back a step, against his horse, but it pierced lung and muscle, not his heart. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he grabbed the saddle, lifted his foot to the stirrup, and pulled himself up. A hand grabbed his belt and yanked him back down again, then threw him across the clearing and into a tree trunk with painful accuracy.

  Snarling, Renaud struggled back up to his feet, drawing his sword. But Alexander was just there, in front of him, one fine-boned hand gripping Renaud’s jaw, forcing him to meet the former prince’s icy gaze. Suddenly his hand could no longer grip his sword, his legs could barely support him. Even when Alexander let go and stepped back, those cold eyes held him immobile.

  The next bolt found its target; a numbing cold ran outwards from his unbeating heart to all his limbs, and he crumpled to the ground, paralyzed and helpless.

  “Renaud de Joinville,” Alexander said, standing over him. “Your existence was mine from the first night you tasted my childe’s blood and swore your service to Olivier and to me. I may have lent you to Sighard for a time, but that did not invalidate your oath—nor allow you to dare claim this gift of immortality from another’s veins. Your disloyalty and betrayal have never been forgotten, though the judgment and final penalty have been delayed until a more appropriate and auspicious time.”