“Do you think you would? You are a stranger at this Court.” She licked his face along his jaw. “You tread more carefully than a Moor in a monastery.”
“It is a prudent thing to do,” said Rakoczy, and lay down next to her. “You may laugh at such cautions: you can afford to. But I cannot.”
“You tell me so many things you cannot do,” she chided him fondly. “I must be content with what you can do.” Twisting so that she faced him on the bed, she kissed him urgently. “I am waiting for you, Magnatus,” she whispered, and pulled another of the lacings loose from the front of her stolla, exposing her breasts.
Rakoczy touched her almost reverently, his hands revealing how much he treasured what she offered him. “How soft your skin is,” he marveled as he fondled the ample curve of flesh. He bent and touched her nipple with his tongue, slowly and lightly; Odile shivered luxuriously and opened another lacing of her garment.
“This is what I want from you,” she whispered, her voice low and promising. “You find excitation in me that no one else has ever found, certainly not my late husband. I will have this from you, at least” Her fingers locked in his hair again. “Do not end too soon, Magnatus.”
“I have no reason to hurry you,” said Rakoczy, his hands beginning to evoke more and more passionate responses from her.
“How is it you know where to find such pleasure?” She tugged on his hair, almost too sharply. “Have you been among the voluptuous Arabs? Or the luxurious Byzantines? Or have you been to distant lands and learned secrets no man in Franksland knows?”
Rakoczy thought of the Emir’s son and struggled not to scoff. “I know something of the Arabs, yes, but not this. This I learned in other ways,” Rakoczy murmured to her slightly rounded belly, a token of the children she had borne.
“However it was, I am grateful.” She inhaled sharply, and her back arched in response to what he was doing. “Oh, yes. That’s right.”
He continued his exploration of her body, sliding his hands between her legs just as she unlaced all the front of her stolla. There was no question of her arousal now; he stroked her inner thighs, easing her need to allow for a more intense experience of her appetite. “Be happy in all we do, Odile,” he said softly, lowering his head to the soft tuft of hair.
She whimpered with gathering fervency, pushing him down onto her, her hands tight with anticipation. “Do it, do it, do it,” she insisted.
Rakoczy tantalized her with his fingers and mouth, bringing her to the verge of fulfillment three times before he moved up her body and with an adroit movement of his fingers, brought her to a culmination of the frenzy that had been building within her. His lips on her neck were as evocative as his fingers, and it seemed to Odile that her pleasure fused into a whole delicious welling that suspended everything but the savor of her flesh.
Gradually, reluctantly, she came back to herself as the deep spasms faded; her face was softened by what she had just experienced, and for the moment she was profoundly fond of Rakoczy. “You are a magician, most certainly.” The smile she offered was happily lazy.
“Do not say so, or the Church will not like it,” he said, only half in jest.
“You know so much more than…” She gazed over his shoulder as if she had forgot what she was saying.
Rakoczy put his finger against her lips. “There is no contest in these matters, Odile. Some are more attuned than others to what is wanted.” He did not add that his vampirism had sensitized him to the desires of his partners long, long ago, for his gratification depended utterly on theirs.
“Then you are a master harper, as well,” she said, turning slightly. “You see? You didn’t slip on the fur.”
“So I didn’t,” he agreed, his hand on her hair. “What now, Odile? It is very late—Nocturnes is over and the Guards will soon change watch—and you are sleepy.”
“Optime knows you lie with me. You can remain here until morning, if you like,” she said, a slight down-turn of her mouth making this seem unlikely.
“But you would prefer to sleep alone,” he said, considering the cramped quarters of the cubiculum. “I understand; I, too, prefer my own bed.” It was narrow and hard as a monk’s, but it was made on a chest filled with his native earth and the rest it provided was sweeter than down and fur could ever be. “You will slumber more deeply if I am gone.”
She would not admit it, but by looking away from him, she conveyed her answer. “You are very good to me, giving me so much pleasure.” Then she looked away from him. “This isn’t much, but it is mine while I serve the King, and I will remain here. You have two chambers assigned to you. There is no reason for you to remain with me.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said without rancor as he rose and stood contemplating her features in the dim light of the room. “But you and I must talk, and soon—before I come to you again.”
Now Odile’s annoyance was returning. “If you say we must, we must I shall come to choose something to read after Prime, and you can tell me then whatever you must.” She stretched. “You did well by me tonight,” said Odile, and pulled a bearskin around her.
Aware that this was a dismissal, Rakoczy reverenced her and stepped back toward the door. He slipped into the corridor and made his way to the stairs leading down. There he noticed that a monk was walking back and forth in front of the narrow staircase, his tonsured head catching the light from the torch in the sconce next to the stairwell. Rakoczy checked his descent, then continued on down to the foot of the flight. “God give you a good night, Fratre,” he said, and saw the monk’s hand go to the hilt of his dagger. “I am Magnatus Rakoczy,” he added, as if he were not aware of the Fratre’s intention.
“God give you good night, Magnatus,” said the monk. “I know who you are.”
Rakoczy was unsure how to respond, so he only ducked his head and prepared to pass on.
The monk stopped him. “Optime has need of you.”
If Rakoczy thought it odd of Karl-lo-Magne to use a monk to summon him, he did not allow the thought to change his demeanor. “So late? It must be urgent.”
“He is closeted with Sublime Alcuin,” said the monk, indicating the Royal Residence across the courtyard.
“Ah, yes. Alcuin arrived here yesterday.” Rakoczy fell in beside the monk.
“And since Nocturnes, Optime and the Sublime have been deep in discussion. Optime has asked for you to come as soon as you left Widow Odile.”
The monk did not see Rakoczy’s sardonic smile. “I must thank you for your patience,” he said as the two of them entered the Royal Residence.
“They are in the King’s library,” said the monk, pointing the way.
“Thank you. I know where it is,” said Rakoczy, lengthening his stride and swiftly moving ahead of the monk. The corridor was torch-lit—one of the torches produced more smoke than light—and manned by Guards with their swords out of the scabbards. Rakoczy passed the Guards, ducking his head to each of them. When he reached the library door, he found two Guards in front of the door. “I am Rakoczy. The King sent for me. If you would allow me to enter?”
The Guards opened the door and stood aside, then pulled the door closed again, leaving the three men in the room alone.
Karl-lo-Magne and Alcuin were bent over two vast maps, their full attention on what was drawn there; the King only looked up when the sharp rap of Rakoczy’s heels on the stone flooring demanded notice. “There you are,” he approved. “Come, Magnatus. Come.” He motioned the foreigner to approach.
Rakoczy did as he was ordered. “What am I to see, Optime?” He reverenced the King, and then the Bishop before looking down at the two maps.
Slapping his hand down on the larger of the maps, Karl-lo-Magne said, “Look at this! I want to build a canal to cross Franksland so that goods may be taken to more distant markets without the many difficulties of overland travel.” This sounded like an often-expressed desire, coming automatically and with habitual force. “In times of famine, food could be carr
ied to the afflicted regions, and in time of war, supplies could be shipped more quickly by canal than carried in carpenta.”
“And more easily sunk,” said Alcuin. “To say nothing of the possibility of war breaking out in places the canal wouldn’t reach. What use is a canal in Francia or Neustria, or Austrasia if the war is in Longobardia, or Gasconia, or Carinthia?”
“It could still be useful,” Karl-lo-Magne insisted.
“Ever since he learned of Uffa’s Wall in Mercia, he has been determined to exceed it,” said Alcuin fatalistically. “This would make Uffa’s accomplishment seem paltry.”
“Is that the breastwork dyke between Mercia and Wales?” Rakoczy knew it was, but realized he should not appear to have heard of it.
“That is it,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “My canal would be far longer, and much more useful.” The angle of his chin made it clear that he wanted no opposition to this.
Rakoczy looked carefully at the map. “A most ingenious plan, Optime,” he said cautiously, “and yet, with so many warlike peoples on your borders, I wonder if undertaking so vast a project just now might not leave you vulnerable to attack, because of the men you would have to divert from guarding your frontiers.” He looked the King steadily in the eye. “If you conscript peasants to build this, you risk famine.”
“That may be true, but in plentiful years, when grain and livestock flourish, we may provide against lean years, and so put men to work on the canal without famine.”
Rakoczy studied the map while trying to shape his answer. “To find myself between two great men, as I do now,” he began deferentially, “I wonder that you should consider anything I say.”
“You are a most knowledgeable man,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “You have traveled more widely than either of us, and must have seen many wonders. Therefore you are the very man to help me decide. You are not a Frank, and you do not seek to advance yourself through courtly favor. So. Peruse the map, consider the plan, and let me have your opinion.”
There was no way to back out of this readily, and Rakoczy said, “I will.” He pretended to be engrossed in the map, finally saying, “It is a tremendous enterprise. It will take time, many men, and money, to see it done. The expense may be greater than you wish to pay.”
“Then you agree with Alcuin, that this should not be done?” The King’s high voice rose a little, the challenge clear.
“I think that it can be done, but not while you have so many enemies around you,” said Rakoczy, determined not to make his position unfavorable. “Once your borders are secure, I would think a pair of canals might be desirable, one here, where you have drawn it, and another crossing it at right angles, to open the way for the rest of your Kingdom. You will have less disappointment among your people if you do that, and you will ensure plenty for all Franks.” He rocked back on his heels. “You plan to build a very long way, and that means the work must be done over many years, for such work cannot be done in winter.”
“No, but in winter, with your superior ice skates, my messengers will use the canals more efficiently than the rivers,” said Karl-lo-Magne, as if this were a clinching factor.
“Optime, I am gratified to know the skates I made have been all you hoped for, but to undertake so much for a winter road is perhaps more trouble than its benefits would be.” Rakoczy took a step back from the table. “I should think you might find more worth in sledges that could be dragged along the frozen canals much as barges would be in the rest of the year.”
Karl-lo-Magne looked disgruntled. “You have a point there, Magnatus.” He tapped his fingers together, then contemplated the map once more. “As you say, two canals would be the wiser plan.”
“But a much more costly one, for all that,” said Alcuin, shooting a sharp look at Rakoczy from under his tufted eyebrows. “I see the Magnatus’ purpose, and I believe it is a point well-taken, but, Optime, it would take much longer and the cost would be enormous.”
“So it might be,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “But nothing can be accomplished in this world without some cost—in labor, in days, or in money—accruing to it.”
“Just what I wanted to convey,” said Rakoczy. “So great an undertaking will require the dedication of many men for several years, and during that time, it will be difficult for you to put your armies into the field—not only for numbers, but because so much of your men and materiel will be committed to the work on canals.” He shook his head. “I would be a poor guest, indeed, if I failed to warn you of the many costs such an undertaking demands. If you were to try to build the canals and then were forced to abandon them before completion, you would be derided for your inability to bring the project to completion.”
Karl-lo-Magne’s cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes sizzled. “No man will laugh at me!”
“Certainly not,” said Alcuin quickly. “But Rakoczy’s observations are well-intended. It would be held as a failure in you if you should begin the canal—or canals—and then be forced to abandon them. It would appear that you had extended yourself too far, and that, in turn, would make you seem weakened. You know how much contempt the Longobardians had for Desiderius for his inability to complete his fortifications at Pavia. How could the Franks be less concerned than the Longobardians?”
“His men were stopped by the mal aria,” said Karl-lo-Magne.
“It doesn’t matter the cause,” said Alcuin. “In the end he did not do the thing he vowed to do, and his people turned away from him and favored you.” This was not as accurate a statement as either the King or the Bishop thought it was, but it proved to be persuasive.
“I had best work on these plans a little longer, so that when work begins on the canals, it will be finished in accordance with my orders,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and addressed Rakoczy. “You are a perspicacious fellow, Magnatus. Your abilities are endless.” The speculative light in the King’s eyes now made Rakoczy more uneasy than his previous ire had done.
“Hardly endless, Optime,” said Rakoczy. “But any poor skills I have are yours to command.”
Karl-lo-Magne continued to tap his fingers. “Yes. Yes,” he said as he measured Rakoczy with a piercing gaze.
“You have come from far away, and you’ve learned many things.” Alcuin tapped Karl-lo-Magne on the sleeve. “Do not put the Magnatus at any more of a disadvantage than you already have.”
“How can my favor be a disadvantage?” said Karl-lo-Magne with exaggerated innocence.
“You know better than that,” said Alcuin, glancing at Rakoczy. “There are courtiers who are jealous of the Magnatus, and you know it.”
“They are jealous of one another, too,” said Karl-lo-Magne mulishly.
“All the more reason to be circumspect,” said Alcuin. “You do not want to give them any more reason to become rivals. You are able to keep the worst of them in check, but it is still no easy matter to control them all. Do not tell me otherwise, for I have eyes and ears, Optime, and I know what transpires in Franksland.”
“If Rakoczy had kin to support him, things might be different,” said Karl-lo-Magne, unwilling to admit that Alcuin was right.
“But I do not,” said Rakoczy, breaking in to their wrangling. “Nor will I have.”
“True,” said Alcuin. “No Bishop would give you leave to marry, your land being in the hands of our enemies, though you are exiled from it.” He did his best to appear sympathetic, but this did not come readily to him. “You have great value, no doubt, but you are also one who must go about the world unbound by convention and blood.”
“Do you think so?” Rakoczy could not keep himself from asking. “It may seem so to you, but I have great loyalty to those of my blood still in the world.”
“Whom you admit are scattered and few,” said Alcuin.
“That’s so,” Rakoczy agreed, “and all the more reason for us to honor our bonds.”
“There you are right,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “A man’s first loyalty must always be to his blood, or all else fails. You can trust no one if you c
annot trust blood.”
“Then there is no more to be said,” Alcuin conceded, looking away from the King.
“That woman—Odile?—is she still to your liking?” Karl-lo-Magne asked Rakoczy with a grin.
“She is a delightful creature,” said Rakoczy carefully. “It was most generous of you to arrange matters for me in regard to her.”
“She will be no trouble to you. If you should have any complaint, inform me and it will be tended to.” His tone was final. “You must not cling to anyone you do not want.”
“I would not,” said Rakoczy, wondering what this was all about.
“Hathumod is a fairly dull companion, once her initial youth and sweetness palls,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “In time, all women are boring, aren’t they?”
So Karl-lo-Magne was shifting his interest to Odile, Rakoczy realized. “I will keep this in mind,” he said to the King, and added to Alcuin, “I trust, Sublime, that I do not offend you.”
“I have known Great Karlus for many years. If I were going to be offended, it would have happened long ago.” He smiled wearily. “But I am grateful for your concern, Magnatus.”
Karl-lo-Magne scowled. “I am only concerned that Rakoczy not be poorly rewarded for his service to me. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I Confess my sins and I accept the forgiveness of God and His Bishops. There is nothing I need repent that I have not—”
Alcuin held up his hand. “Yes, Optime. There is no reason to question your devotion to the Church and her teaching.” He glanced at Rakoczy. “Optime is no monk, and no one expects him to act as if he were one.”
“Of course not,” said Rakoczy, and took another step back, hoping that Odile would be pleased to know that she had finally caught the King’s eye. “Is there anything more?”
“Yes, there is,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “I am very pleased with all you have done for me, yet there are still a few matters for which I must ask your assistance.” He gave a direct look to Alcuin and went on forcefully. “I know your reservations, and I do not begrudge you a single one of them, but you and I must not be caught up in this dispute unless it is absolutely necessary. This cannot become a cause of the Church, either, for it is too divisive. If Rakoczy will make an evaluation, then neither you nor I need be required to accept this as our final decision, and it can be removed from the direct concerns of the Church. That is all to the good, for us and for the Pale Woman as well.”
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