Revenge of the Rose (11 page)

Once the two were out of earshot, there was an awkward pause. Marcus smoothed the trim on his blackberry-colored tunic.

“You know each other,” he commented, gratuitously.

“As you say, I am his vassal,” said Willem in a neutral tone. His slight accent was identical to Imogen’s— Burgundian— and it hurt Marcus’s heart to hear it in another voice. A shadow passed across Willem’s face briefly and he asked, “I know the count is His Majesty’s uncle, but is he in fact an intimate?”

“That depends on who is speaking,” Marcus answered. “He would say he is.”

“What would you say?”

“I would say he is my future father-in-law and politely decline to comment on the issue.” He felt an adolescent thrill, stating it to an outsider; he wondered if Willem was aware of his lowly lineage and would challenge him for making such a claim.

But Willem just looked thoughtful for a moment. “I do not know his daughter but I trust she is…a lady of her own merits,” he said respectfully.

“As different as Gabriel from Lucifer. Her mother the countess is a goodly soul, that must account for it.” And in a lower voice, “I assume your dealings with him did not leave a pleasant taste in your mouth?”

Willem released a blow of breath that was a disparaging laugh, but then stopped himself. Jouglet had insisted he not make alliances too early. He glanced after the count, who had already released Erec and was making his way toward the high table before the fire.

“It was a long time ago,” Willem said to Marcus. “It makes little difference now.” Thinking of Jouglet he glanced around the room and noticed for the first time how bright it was, much brighter than his little wooden hall at home— there were more windows, more chandeliers, and the walls were limed and painted with bright colors, preponderantly gold. He’d never seen gold paint before.

Before he could locate his friend, Marcus took his arm. “So,” the steward announced. “To the master.” The trestles were set up running on either side of the hall, but no cloths as yet covered the boards as Marcus led Willem toward the most ornate chair in the room, canopied with gold and scarlet, in the middle of a dais.

Seated there, at the high table, was a man who only vaguely resembled the images stamped in coins or sealed in wax, but there could be no doubt who this was. A large man of middle years with pale eyes and reddish blond hair, hefting a sleek hooded falcon on his leather-wrapped wrist, he was dressed in brilliant scarlet silks and velvets— dressed more magnificently than anyone Willem had ever seen, with a gold circlet literally glittering with gemstones—

“That’s the emperor!” Willem said in a voice checked with excited awe. Marcus looked at his astonished face and smiled despite himself. So the much-heralded Willem of Dole was a pup. Marcus found his artlessness endearing.

“Yes, His Majesty, and on his wrist is Charity. The cardinal beside him is his brother Paul who has recently joined us from Rome as papal nuncio.”

The two men were not speaking to each other. More precisely, Konrad was not speaking to his brother. He seemed to be speaking to his falcon, whose hood sparkled almost as brightly as the king’s own headpiece. Paul was earnestly, but unsuccessfully, trying to rally the few other men at the high table to converse with him. Willem felt a little sorry for him.

“Look at that,” he said with continued artlessness. “They are alike in feature, but there is something to the king that the priest lacks.”

“Good fortune in birth order,” Marcus observed.

Konrad recognized Willem from Jouglet’s many loquacious descriptions— brown hair, brown eyes, handsome build, handsome rectangular face and a fighter’s handsomely broken nose, an air of confidence mixed with modesty. He returned Charity to her perch behind him and rose to greet the young man. He was pleased to see how strong he looked— he must be a good fighter, at least; the slavish dedication to the throne, so exalted by Jouglet, would prove useful. If nothing else, he could perhaps be made a reliable constable somewhere back in his home county.

“Ah! The fabled Willem of Dole!” Konrad said, which brought all eyes to the young knight. The hum of the hall quieted a little. Willem was startled that the great man called him by name and bowed deeply; the emperor further astounded him by taking his elbow as casually as Marcus had, and drawing him back toward the table. He couldn’t wrest his eyes from the emperor’s jeweled hand on his arm. On the emperor’s little finger, simpler but larger than the other adornments, was his gold signet ring, the very ring that had sealed the invitation Nicholas had brought to Dole. Willem resisted a childish urge to touch it. “We have all been very much looking forward to your arrival,” Konrad said, booming. People were still gossiping in huddles, but it was noticeably more quiet as everyone tried to study the emperor’s new find. “Jouglet has sung your praises for weeks now, and Nicholas has added to the chorus since this afternoon.”

He had Willem on the royal dais before the younger man had collected himself. “Allow me to introduce my little brother,” Konrad said with an insulting casualness, not addressing the priest directly. “This is Cardinal Paul, our official papal spy. Brother Paul, this is Willem of Dole, a celebrated knight of Burgundy whose arrival we’ve been anticipating for days.” Paul was on his feet before Konrad had finished the introduction. Everyone looked wary of the newcomer, but Paul looked almost frightened.

Willem bowed. “And what great exploits have brought you to my brother’s attentions?” demanded the cardinal with an anxious smile, as if he were jealous that yet another person in the room might out-shine him. Despite sharing the emperor’s fair features, he appeared an oversize adolescent, soft in all the places Konrad was firm. And while Konrad’s expansive geniality heralded how entirely confident he was of being the center of the known world, the equivalent attempts in Paul betrayed the creeping realization that he was not, and might never be.

“The court musician assures me he is worthy of attention,” Konrad said with suspicious offhandednesss. Paul was appalled.

“You may as well believe the commendations of a prostitute,” he said in a loud whisper to his brother.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Konrad mused. “But he’s no ordinary musician, Paul, haven’t you sniffed that out yet with that little bloodhound nose of yours? Come, Willem, sit with me— shove down, Alphonse,” he ordered his uncle, who had taken the seat closest to the king’s right. The count rose, with a look that Willem found shockingly disrespectful. Konrad ignored it. “Uncle, this fellow is from your county. Have you been hiding him from me and all the ladies?”

The count almost choked. “Of course not, sire, but I have a thousand knights under me, and only a few of them ever make it to your halls. I need the rest along the Saône,” he stammered.

His nephew had already lost interest in him. “Sit beside me while we wait for supper, Willem.” The count and knight exchanged uncomfortable, startled looks.

“Oh, sire,” Willem said carefully, finally finding his voice, and bowing again. “You honor me, but it would be unseemly to take such a privileged seat. I am a stranger here, surely there are men more deserving of the distinction— “

“They will sit next to me another time,” Konrad said placidly. There was constant competition among the knights and courtiers for the coveted spot to the king’s right, and he wanted to see how they would all respond to an unexpected usurper.

But Willem did not provide an opportunity to find out. “Truly, Your Majesty, I would feel an imposter,” he said, fighting the urge to fidget under the continued intensity of so many judging eyes. “Especially as your own esteemed brother and uncle already flank you. Simply being in your court is honor enough for me. I’ve brought my squire Erec with me— please allow me to sit with him until he is more confident with his German?” He glanced about briefly and finally saw Jouglet at the lower end of the hall, near the door, beside Erec and the lower minions of the castle. Jouglet had probably had an eye on him since he’d walked in.

Without expression, Jouglet nodded once, approving Willem’s comportment.

Konrad was staring at the knight, astounded. Men
groveled
to earn a place at his right side— groveled, pandered, stole, blasphemed, murdered; some occasionally even tried to get there by merit. He had never met anyone who would turn down an opportunity to sit beside him. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jouglet’s real motive was in initiating Willem’s introduction to the court. Perhaps the knight’s much-touted dedication to the throne was a front, and this was his opening gambit to make it clear that he would need currying. Suspicious but intrigued, Konrad invited his guest to sit at the end of the high table, three seats down from him. He made it clear to the men between them— a dyspeptic-looking Alphonse and the Count of Luz— that they were to push their bench back to let the king speak directly to his new visitor. “So,” Konrad began, allowing one of his Italian greyhounds to hop up onto his lap and nestle in against his surcoat. He had turned his back directly to his brother, who peered over Konrad’s shoulder, attempting to be part of the conversation. Again, Willem felt a flash of sympathy for Paul, although he did not like the way the man was looking at him. “I hear you’re superlative in tourneys. Do you know there is soon to be a huge tournament at the foot of this mountain?”

“A tournament!” Willem said immediately, loudly. Twenty-five paces away, seated on a wooden bench beside Jouglet, Erec sat bolt upright to listen. “Excellent! I’m ready to ride in it, sire, and happily I made the trip with all my armor, so all I need is a helmet.” This time he managed to say it with something approaching enthusiasm.

On the far side of the hall, Jouglet grinned with satisfaction and whispered to Erec, “I think he’s about to get a helmet.”

Almost simultaneously with this, Konrad announced grandly, “Come to think of it, I have a helmet I would be honored to give you. Boidon!” he called out to his chamberlain. “The Senlis helmet— bring it from my armory.”

Alphonse of Burgundy looked horrified. Boidon the chamberlain and Marcus the steward exchanged brief, incredulous looks across the room. “Yes, sire,” Boidon said tonelessly and took the exit nearer to the high table.

“Now remind me,” Konrad said to Willem, “exactly where your estates are again. Are you directly on the border? On the Saône, I mean?”

Risking a fleeting glance at Jouglet and avoiding Alphonse of Burgundy altogether, Willem answered as quietly as he could, “I have a small holding outside Dole, sire, not quite at the border— on the River Doubs. I live there with my family. It keeps us fed and well enough maintained.”

“Excellent. And what else?”

“That is all, sire,” Willem said softly.

Konrad frowned. “I did not know your father well, but I do recognize the name,” he said. This was true; Jouglet had mentioned it to the emperor repeatedly as he was being dressed for supper. “Silvan is one of the oldest families in Burgundy. Surely your ancestors distinguished themselves enough for great estates.”

“Most assuredly,” Willem answered. “Yes, they did.” He felt himself turn slightly pink. Between them, Alphonse tried to disappear into the wall.

“Then how came you to lose it?” Konrad demanded, testing how Willem would respond to an impossibly awkward situation.

“Brother,” Paul said with warmth from behind Konrad’s shoulder. “You do not understand the pain of deprivation; do not ask your guest to be reminded of it publicly.” He smiled comfortingly, understandingly, at Willem, who gave him a grateful look.

“Lack of advancement only stings when one is prideful,” Konrad rebutted airily to his brother, who had narrowly missed being elected pope the year before. “As a
good
Christian, my guest is surely not burdened with the sin of pride.”

Paul grimaced and pulled away again, a chastised child, as Konrad returned his full attention to Willem.

Willem looked down into his lap, afraid of accidentally meeting the count’s gaze. Many pairs of eyes were staring at him, hanging on the answer: he realized he was new blood, and whatever the explanation, this would be good gossip. “It is a complicated story, sire, hardly an engaging anecdote for a supper feast. Anyhow, I may have lost my land, but there are more important things. I have my own reputation to enrich me, and the joy of my sister and mother’s company.”

Across the hall, Jouglet cringed and sprang to action, afraid Willem had gone too far expressing a noble heart in a setting where no such thing actually existed. Konrad simply disregarded the comment, intent on testing Willem’s diplomacy. “And who has the land now?” he queried disingenuously. “How did they get it?”

Willem shifted uncomfortably. “I have lost track,” he said vaguely. “I have no legal recourse to it, so it is no concern of mine.”

“Uncle,” Konrad said, and Alphonse nearly jumped. “Uncle, does this sound familiar to you? You’re his liege lord, you should be trying to prevent these things.”

“My good knight Willem, isn’t that the latest style from France?” Jouglet interrupted loudly, abruptly, and too cheerfully, from the foot of the dais. “You stylish fellow! The undecorated look is all the rage now, among the Gallic aristocracy. Did you know that, sire?”

Konrad glanced down at the musician and chose not to play along. “Do not presume upon my patronage too far,” he warned. “I’m holding an interview. You will not interrupt my queries, or I shall interrupt your throat.”

It was the first time Willem had ever seen his dapper young friend look abashed.

But then Boidon returned, burdened with a box; the emperor decided to prod the Burgundians some other time. He turned his attention to his chamberlain, so that was the end of it. The count and the musician, for their very disparate reasons, both looked relieved. The chamberlain set the box on the table by Konrad; Konrad himself carefully extracted an iron helmet.

The entire bubbling hall went silent. Willem had never seen any headgear like this. Where most helmets had a top that tapered to only a noseguard, this one, masklike, covered the wearer’s face almost down to the jaw, with oval holes for eyes. It had decorative gold strips on it that were covered with chased designs; it looked more like a ceremonial piece than something intended to be used in battle, but Konrad, holding it out to Willem, promised, “This is one of the strongest helmets ever forged.”