“Like now.” Marques grabbed Renaud’s tunic and dragged him to lean up against a tree, ripping the laces of Renaud’s mail coif free in his haste to pull it back and bare his throat. “Traitor.”
On Renaud’s other side, István laid aside the crossbow and drew a knife.
It was no easy task to move an army undetected, nor to abandon a long-established haven, much less leave it clearly visited by the wrath of an almighty God. Real Cainite remains being in short supply, those of mortals were disinterred and prepared for burning as well, and ashes from the kitchen hearth and blacksmith’s forge gathered and laid out as convincingly as possible. The mortal brothers who had volunteered to stay received special blessings and the supreme unction from Father Erasmus, and then submitted themselves to Lord Jürgen’s personal direction, so that they would be able to tell their Poor Knight captors only what the Hochmeister wanted them to know.
Every night, a few of the rest of the Order of the Black Cross had left St. Mary’s under cover of darkness, traveling in small groups with minimal baggage, and as quietly as possible. They went either to the Castle of Hundisburg, where Jürgen had established an alternate commandery, or to one of the other smaller commanderies in the north that Lord Jürgen had ordered prepared to receive them, in preparation for the upcoming and far longer journey to Livonia.
The horse was the first sign of trouble: a riderless horse trotting up the road towards St. Mary’s. Its saddle and tack were of the unadorned style favored by the Black Cross, and splattered with Cainite blood. Hoping to find some sign of his rider, Christof and Josselin rode back along the road. They had barely gone a mile when Josselin pulled up, extending a hand to signal Christof as well.
“Someone’s coming—” Josselin whispered and closed his eyes to listen more closely. “Two horses.”
They turned their horses off into the trees, and found a good vantage point where they could view the road ahead and remain unseen.
“There’s a light,” Christof said, frowning. “Damn them, I expressly ordered—”
“Those aren’t our knights,” Josselin interrupted. “They’re mortal. Look, they’re leaving the road.”
“Scouts, then,” Christof muttered. “I’ll have to distract them, or they’ll see our people.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Josselin said. “You can get those brothers moving faster, they’ll listen to you.”
“Josselin—” Christof started, although he couldn’t argue the logic. “Very well.”
“And lend me your surcoat.”
The moon was so bright, they only needed the lantern when they rode under the trees. But on such a night, they would not be the only ones abroad. And, as Otto himself had pointed out, demons knew the scriptures too, and might guess there was a reason and rhyme for the Poor Knights’ activities around their walls these past seven days. Given the hour, it was foolish to assume the Cainites would wait inside their walls like captive pike in a barrel. So Brother Matthias, who knew the countryside around St. Mary’s like his own name, and Otto, whose sensitive nose was becoming legendary, rode out ahead of time to ensure that events were indeed moving as the angel had foretold.
Brother Matthias pulled up his horse suddenly. “Herr Otto, look. Is it—?”
A mounted knight on a tall gray horse stood on the road ahead of them, on the other side of a narrow bridge. The knight wore full mail from head to foot and a white surcoat with the black cross of the Teutonic Order, and carried a long lance tipped with steel.
Otto looked, and sniffed the air. A sickening-sweet odor of rotting garbage reached his nostrils, and he nearly gagged. “Yes,” he gasped. “One of them.”
“Well, then,” Matthias grinned, and lifted his own lance. “God willing, I’ll send the bastard right back to Hell.”
On the other side of the bridge, the knight’s horse stamped and tossed its head. The knight lowered his lance. The moonlight reflected off his mail and his eyes glittered coldly in his pale face.
Otto felt a sudden sense of foreboding, as if the blood in his veins had suddenly turned to ice; he felt a sudden urge to turn his horse around and ride as fast as he could back to the safety of the commandery. “Brother, maybe we should wait for the others—”
“Have you no faith, Herr Otto?” Matthias urged his horse forward, and lowered his lance. “For Christ and the True Cross!”
Across the bridge, the gray horse held its ground, the knight unmoving as Matthias kicked his destrier into a full charge.
The Poor Knight lowered his lance and charged. “Steady, lad, steady,” Josselin murmured, holding Sorel back. “Let him come to us….” In truth, he was impressed—and more than a little surprised. No mortal had ever withstood his gaze like this, much less mustered an attack.
The mortal knight’s horse crossed the bridge, hooves pounding on the wooden planks.
Josselin rose up in his stirrups, his grip shifting on the lance. At just the right moment, he lifted it above his shoulder and then hurled it like a javelin with all his blood-borne strength.
The knight had no room to dodge the missile, no time to maneuver. It penetrated both his armor and his torso; he was thrown backwards out of the saddle with the force of it and landed hard on the dirt. He did not move again.
Josselin drew his sword and urged Sorel forward at the other mortal—the knight’s lackey, perhaps, since he wore no habit. The blood-scent invigorated him; his fangs were already extending, the Beast whispering in his ear. Run, he willed the mortal as he rode towards him.
Run, or join your master.
Otto saw Matthias go flying backwards out of his saddle, and land hard on the road, the lance through his body. He crossed himself, murmured a quick prayer for the Poor Knight’s soul. Then the demon knight came over the bridge, sword in hand and teeth bared like a wolf.
Fear gripped Otto’s bowels, and he had a strong urge to turn his horse and ride away as fast as he could into the night. But no Murnau had ever run from the Devil, or so his father had always said. He drew his sword. “Demon!” he cried, and kicked his horse forward.
But his horse was not trained for combat, and at the last minute it shied away from his oncoming foe, forcing him to pay as much attention to keeping his balance as defending himself from the Cainite’s attack, or hitting the bastard.
The Cainite swerved towards him, and parried Otto’s attempted blow with such force that he felt his hand and arm go numb. He had a closer view than he’d ever cared to of the Cainite’s white fangs and cold blue eyes; the stench of the creature made his eyes run and his vision go blurry.
Then a hard, mailed fist impacted with his temple; he was aware of falling, darkness and stars as the ground rose up to meet him.
Josselin dismounted and knelt beside the fallen mortal’s crumpled form; the man was stunned, blood matting his hair where Josselin had struck him. He bent closer, suddenly noticing the silk embroidery that trimmed the man’s collar.
This was no servant: His clothes were too fine, the clasps and embellishments on his belt buckle and scabbard too decorative for a man connected to a monastic order. He wore mail under his tunic, too, and a ring on his finger, which bore a heraldic crest…. It was unfamiliar to Josselin, but he made a note of its design; perhaps Christof would know it.
He could see the pulse of the artery at the man’s neck, steady and strong, could smell the sweet blood. A sudden hunger stabbed at him, even though he had fed earlier that same evening. This, the Beast whispered, was his rightful prey, overcome by the hunter; his prisoner, whose ransom could only be paid in blood.
Josselin bent to collect it.
Cold fingers on his cheek, touching him, examining his clothing. Otto struggled to clear his head of fog and pain without moving or opening his eyes, tried to keep his breathing shallow as he could. Maybe if he thinks I’m out cold he’ll leave me lie…. Holy Virgin, if ever I have found favor in your sight—
Then the Cainite half-lifted him up in his arms, letting Otto’s head loll
back, and he remembered too late the real use a Cainite might have for a helpless victim, as cold lips touched his throat.
He went stiff, fighting back too late, and the Cainite’s grip tightened. There was a sharp, piercing pain as the demon’s fangs stabbed into his throat, and cold terror washed over him.
And then the pleasure began. Waves of pure sensual ecstasy rippled through him from his head to his fingers and toes and back again, leaving him enthralled in a delicious languor. It was the intensity of sex, the sweetness of marzipan, the rare delight of his father’s praise, and it was the seductive taste of death a little at a time as the demon suckled on his vein and drank away his life.
But it did not kill him. Instead it withdrew its sweetly paralyzing kiss and left him empty and alone, weeping on the side of the road, for the Poor Knights to find.
The sun was rising by the time the Poor Knights had finished searching St. Mary’s Hospital and Commandery and cataloguing the results. The few prisoners—poor fellows—wept in their chains, and told tales of an angel stalking through the abbey with a sword of fire. The evidence they had found in the abbey bore that out, from the scorched and fallen gates and doorways to the empty, bloodstained Teutonic habits, filled with gritty ash and bits of charred bone.
“Ashes,” Brother Emil was grinning in satisfaction as he held up his hand and let the ashes sift down through his fingers. “Every last one of the bastards! Not that it makes up for Matthias—not even a thousand piles of ash would do that! But this is a good start—what was the final count, Reinhardt?”
“Eighteen, Brother,” Reinhardt said. “Eighteen Cainites destroyed by the power of God, just as the angel promised! Brother Matthias is smiling down on us from heaven, I’m sure. And thank God for that skittish horse of yours, Herr Otto! The creature must have thought you dead—thank the Virgin and St. Maurice you’re not!”
“Yes, thank God,” Otto agreed, weakly. Brother Gregor had cleaned the blood from his face, checked the dilation of his eyes, and then assured him he’d recover. His hand strayed to his throat, involuntarily; there was no mark there, no evidence of how his flesh had been violated. Nor had he mustered the courage to tell them.
Now there was a clean breeze blowing through the abbey’s broken gates and, God willing, the darkness here at least had been burned out for good. But he couldn’t help wondering which, if any, pile of ash was that demon knight, and if the Cainite’s destruction had truly freed him of its spell.
No one had ever told him that the bite of a Cainite felt good. Now he felt soiled, unclean, and even though it had hardly been voluntary on his part, he wondered if mere confession would ever clean the stain from his soul.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Magdeburg, Saxony
Eve of the Feast of St. Dionysius, October, 1230
The priory was quieter than she remembered it, the cloister lit only by intermittent moonlight, and the few brother-knights of the Black Cross she saw, including those two sent to escort her, wore plain black habits instead of their customary white. But they did not lead her to Jürgen’s council chamber, where he usually met with her, but to a room on the floor above, which appeared to be his personal office, workroom and sleeping chamber.
“Lady Rosamund.” Jürgen was wearing black also, though of a secular cut rather than a monk’s habit. For some reason, that subtle difference pleased her; she did not like seeing him as a monk. “My apologies, milady, for the delay in receiving you—as you know, events of late have been somewhat harried, and have kept me from the pleasures of your company. I am aware, however, of all you and your brother have done for us of late.”
“I am your Highness’s loyal servant, always,” she replied, curtsying. “But it was on another matter I came to speak. It seems that Master Jervais did indeed have some information regarding matters in Livonia to offer your Highness and, having now heard it myself, I think you would find it of interest. I cannot verify his report, of course, and it may be he knows even more than he told me, should your Highness ask it of him.”
“That may be,” Jürgen replied, thoughtfully. “My generals will be meeting after my formal court on All Souls’ Night. Perhaps that might be a better time to hear your report, milady—and if we need to summon the Tremere in for more details, I am certain he will be more than willing to make himself available.”
“Of course, milord,” Rosamund agreed.
“I will offer more official appreciations in that court as well, but I wanted to thank you personally as well for your assistance in this difficult matter.” He paused, and something in his tone, even the way his gaze flickered off to one side and back again, told her he was not yet done with all he had to say. “There was something else as well….”
Rosamund did not need to see his colors to realize this was bad news; she could hear it in his voice, and braced herself for it.
“Your report said that Brother Renaud was missing,” he said somberly. “I thought you and Josselin should know—we found his remains in the woods near the Poor Knights’ commandery. Brother Tancred said he had gone to follow two knights who had left ahead of the others. From what evidence remained, it appears he had been shot in the chest with a crossbow… several times. One bolt must have pierced his heart—he would not have been otherwise subdued without taking others with him.”
Oh, no—poor Renaud! “I—I am sorry…” she managed. “I know Josselin will be greatly grieved to hear of it. He considered Renaud a friend. And I did as well. I never doubted him, milord—I feared it was so when Josselin told me he was missing.”
“He was a friend to your seneschal also, perhaps from their time in service together.”
“Yes. Renaud was close to Peter, and to Fabien also—how did you know?”
“Peter sometimes visited him at St. Mary’s. I thought you knew?”
“No—but I’m not surprised. I—I’d rather he were there than—than other places he could have gone.” She was having trouble speaking; her throat was tight. Poor Peter—where else could he have gone? He dared not even weep for her. “We have all need—needed God’s comfort in these past years.”
Images flickered unbidden through her mind of those whose suffering had been burned into her memory and her heart: Renaud, weeping over poor Olivier’s empty tunic; Margery coming back from Alexander’s room in the early dawn, pale and wan, her eyes reddened from weeping; Peter lying curled up on the floor where Alexander had let him fall, having wet himself in his terror; and her loyal Josselin, standing over Lucien’s headless corpse with a bloody blade and tears running down his cheeks, forced by duty and Alexander’s malice to destroy the errant childe he had loved. And for herself, what it felt like to lie trapped by Alexander’s cold arms and colder heart, to endure his caresses and fear his kiss more than the dawn….
We have all suffered, she realized, and then struggled to banish those memories before they overwhelmed her fragile self-control. I will not cry. I must be strong.
“Milady—is something wrong?”
I will be strong. I owe it to them to be strong, I can’t fail them now, I must be—
But her tears had been dammed up far too long. One dark tear escaped, running down her cheek, and then another. Then it was as if the floodgates of her soul had opened and there was nothing she could do to stem the tide of it. Fear spiked along with grief, frustration, anguish too long bottled up inside. A sob burst free of her throat, and she turned and ran for the door.
She didn’t even get halfway before she encountered an obstacle, a hard chest and strong arms that wrapped around her, then scooped her up off her feet. Jürgen carried her, still weeping, across the room and laid her gently down on the bed. “Shhh, shhh,” he murmured, leaning anxiously over her. “Rosamund—no, you stay there, don’t be afraid, you’re safe here. Whatever it was I said—I pray you forgive me, lady, I would not hurt you for all the world, surely you know that….”
His concern bathed her with warmth, his gaze all but overpowering, so close
, so focused. Her grief had to struggle to keep its grip on her, but she didn’t want to let it go, not entirely, not yet. She fumbled after his hand and he let her take it, curling his fingers around hers. “Not you,” she managed. “Never you—”
“Then what is it, lady? Sweet Rosamund—” His free hand stroked her hair gently, almost as if he feared to hurt her with his touch. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t.” It was a whisper. “No one can.”
He bent slightly and lifted her up in his arms, holding her against his chest. Her arms went around him almost instinctively. “Rosamund. Can’t you trust me just a little?”
It felt so safe in his arms. So good to let the burdens go, let him hold her, let his soft words convince her what she so very much wanted to believe. “I do trust you, milord. It’s not about trust.”
“Then what is it? This—this is not like you.” He touched her cheek, almost gingerly, with his fingertips, traced the line of her jaw. “Whatever troubles you, I will not allow it to continue. Did I not tell you that, should you need my protection, you had only to ask? Rosamund—”
There was something in his voice that caught at her heart—his own hurt and frustration, wanting an enemy he could fight, an obstacle he could knock down and so vanquish her grief and pain in a blow. She looked up and met his gaze, and the words that she had planned to soothe him evaporated from her tongue and vanished unsaid.
His eyes drew her in, deep and intensely blue; she had never been so close to them before. There was concern in them, and a fierce protectiveness that washed over and through her like the heat from a fire. And something else, just as dangerous as flame, and as warming: desire. She savored that for a moment, felt it touch something inside herself that she had tried so hard to keep buried and secret, coaxing it into germinating, sprouting and blossoming where he could see it too.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 25