Revenge of the Rose (16 page)

Soon they would have to separate again. The tournament was coming up, and Konrad needed him for that. Four days was an eternity, and now that they were entirely lovers, it was an eternity of greater contentment than he had known the world could offer. But today was the last day. Until they were married. They would be married soon. Jouglet and Konrad had bullied Alphonse, and Alphonse, duly bullied, had said they would be married soon.

When Imogen stirred against him again, he stroked her cheek, beaming at her, and bent over to kiss her temple. Her hands, under the sheets, moved automatically toward his waist to pull herself closer to his warmth. There was a musky smell between them from three days of gentle but almost unrelenting fornication; it wafted up from the sheets when she moved and made him want to take her again.

But she looked so innocent and content as she slept; he only sighed instead and rested his cheek on her tousled dark hair. He supposed many men must claim to feel this way about their lovers, but he could not believe anybody felt as deeply as he did.

Half asleep, she rolled over and pushed the cool skin of her buttocks against his thighs, which made him almost instantaneously erect. And then in her soft, murmuring voice she whispered, half-yawning, “I like it when you take me this way. I like to feel you pushing against me on the inside and pushing against me on the outside at the same time.” She wiggled a little, pressing back against him; he groaned and laughed.

“I’ve created the perfect lover,” he whispered into the back of her neck, teasing.

“No,” she corrected him, smiling with her eyes closed as his whiskers tickled her. “A shameless whore.”

He sobered instantly and hovered over her, so that by turning her head toward him he could look straight down at her. “You are
not
a whore,” he said in a very serious voice. “You are a lady. I will never let you be known as anything else.”

G
o
into
the attack,” Willem called out patiently as Erec stepped back from his opponent. Like the squires he was training, Willem had stripped down to his breeches; the rolling field outside the fief of Orschwiller was full of sweaty, bare-chested youths in the hot afternoon sun. “
Meet
him.”

Jouglet, lazing supine on the reddish dirt at the edge of the training area, suggested helpfully, “Pretend it’s a woman.”

“Ah!” Erec said with exaggerated heartiness, as if this made it all clear. “Sweetheart!” He threw down his sword theatrically into the dusty soil and leapt forward, pelvis foremost, with arms wide open toward his fellow squire, a smaller boy in service to the Duke of Franconia. The younger boy stared at Erec, not certain how to respond. He hefted his blade straight up, as if entertaining thoughts of swinging it.

“Dammit, Erec!” Willem shouted angrily. He turned to the boy. “Put up, Georges! He’s unarmed. Never strike an unarmed opponent, even if he deserves it, which this stupid child does. And don’t encourage him with laughter, Jouglet,” he ordered, turning on the minstrel, who instantly went stone-faced.

Unrepentant, Erec picked up his sword and muttered, loudly, “We’ve been at this since sext bells, and it’s after nones, certainly we’ve earned a break by now.” He wiped his pimpled forehead with the whole length of his sunburnt arm.

Willem took a step toward him and raised his voice. “You don’t earn breaks in battle, Erec! And Saracens are used to fighting in much harsher climates than ours. What will you say when you find yourself exhausted in the desert someday facing a scimitar? ‘Excuse me, Milord Saracen, but I’m fatigued, shall we pause for
refreshment
?’” The other squires exchanged looks and chuckled, nervously, glad the sarcasm was not directed at them. “For the love of God, I’d die of shame to have one of my men behave that way. No wonder Lienor doesn’t fancy you.”

Erec, red-faced, started to thumb his teeth at his cousin but saw Jouglet watching him, and thought better of it. He resumed the stance he’d had before, ready to engage with Georges again. The smaller boy glanced over Erec’s shoulder toward the slope and his face lit up. “His Majesty is coming to watch!”

Willem glanced up to see Konrad, mounted, riding over the gentle crest of the foothill in a broad path between rows of grapevines. His vanguard, two mounted knights in livery, held high a banner with the imperial coat of arms to make sure he would not be unrecognized. He was followed by a group of some dozen nobles and knights, also mounted, and their servants, who were all on foot and walking faster than seemed comfortable, to keep up with the horses. Willem— extremely self-conscious around Konrad since unhorsing His Majesty at the joust the week before— immediately went down on both knees on the dirt and bowed his head; Jouglet and the dozen squires followed suit at once. From the top of the hill, a few hundred paces away, Konrad gestured for them to rise.

“Carry on,” he called out. “We will make ourselves comfortable at our leisure on the pavilion.”

Jouglet, rising first, saw who was riding to either side of the emperor. “It’s a family reunion,” the minstrel said in a loud whisper to the knight. “Tell these pretty boys to put their shirts back on or Brother Paul will throw them all out for deviancy.” Willem made a dismissive gesture.

Erec looked far too excited about the king’s arrival. Willem gestured him closer, and he approached, certain he was about to be given an opportunity to show off. But instead Willem shouted in his face, so abruptly that the younger cousin jumped back in shock:
“Erec!”
This got the attention of even the most distracted squires. “Your penalty for breaking concentration is to put down your sword for the rest of the afternoon and tend to Atlas.” Willem’s horse had been off his feed since they had arrived at court. “Examine his manure and see if there is anything peculiar about it. Smell it. Taste it if you have to.”

The other squires exchanged glances, at once scared and trying not to laugh. Erec’s face puckered. “You can’t order me to eat horse-shit, Willem, I’m your
lord.
”

“You’re my
squire,
that’s why you’re here at all,” Willem corrected brusquely. “Here at
your own insistence.
” He turned his back on Erec, and immediately the other youths pretended to be busy practising. He clapped twice to get their attention; they were all too preoccupied with showing him how hard they were working to notice this, and most of them did not regard him.

“Attention!”
Jouglet shrieked in an almost ear-splitting falsetto, leaping up.

They all froze. Jouglet made a pained face, signaled the page boy attending Willem for wine, and sat down again.

The knight chuckled. “Thank you, Jouglet.”

Between gulps of wine, Jouglet declared, loudly enough to be heard by the spectators, “Always an honor to serve such a great knight.”

Willem ignored this and pressed on. “All right now, let’s show His Majesty what you’re all made of. We will walk through the drill you learned this morning—
slowly
— and then up to speed.”

He had been standing to the south with the sun at his back. But now that his emperor was settling directly across from him, he felt himself too much on display and worked his way around the edge of the hollow until he was standing just below Konrad and the others. Jouglet followed him.

At a gesture from Konrad, Jouglet moved up the swell to the covered, open-sided audience pavilion, where the heralds had raised the banner. “How has this been going?” Konrad asked. Down the slope, Willem was squinting into the sunlight and calling out numbers to the fighters, who moved almost dancerlike through the drill.

Jouglet nodded. “He’s very patient with them, but very strict. He’s coaxed terrific work out of them. He could teach your knights a thing or two, sire.”

Paul, seated to his brother’s right and entirely ignored, stared narrowly at Jouglet. Jouglet smiled comfortably, knowingly, smoothly in response. “As His Eminence appears to question my…investment in the knight’s ascension, might I ask whether His Eminence has his own investment in preventing it?”

Paul jerked upright, nostrils flaring like an indignant stallion. “I was actually going to comment that you are spending an inordinate amount of time gaping at these half-naked youths.” He tried to make it sound like sarcastic humor, in the hopes that perhaps a few people nearby would laugh.

“You’re right, Eminence. It’s envy, plain and simple,” Jouglet responded at once, unruffled. “I know that envy is a deadly sin, and I shall confess it when next I go to shrift.” The vaguest hint of a smile. “I am overdue to be shriven. Perhaps Your Eminence would do the honor, if he knows of any dark and private place nearby we might—
ouf!
” This was in response to Konrad, barely squelching his laughter, smacking the minstrel hard on the side of the head.

“Have they worked the horses yet?” asked a knight’s mistress, near the throne, eyes on the squires at work. She grinned confidingly at Nicholas, standing beside her. “I like watching them lance the ring.” Paul, hearing this, sighed with benevolent exasperation, letting everyone know this was precisely the sort of suggestive comment he would expect in a court like this.

“I’d let Willem lance my ring,” Nicholas chuckled in response, and several of the ladies tittered. Konrad gave his messenger an infuriated look of warning, which sobered him. The cardinal rolled his eyes theatrically and pursed his lips.

“Seven,”
Willem called out, then noticing one of the boys over-reach, commanded, “stay on balance.” He walked among the five teams; Georges, without a partner, went through the movements as though he had an invisible opponent. At Willem’s call they came to a finish at the same moment, froze, then brought their swords to a neutral position, held upright from the waist and slightly crossing their chests. Willem nodded with satisfaction and clapped once, then began to call out numbers but much faster this time. In this tempo, they looked like an abbreviated army in choreographed battle.

“That is a beautiful sight,” Konrad said expansively. It was the closest he had come yet to delivering a line directly to Paul. “Strong, healthy, capable bodies, and all of them laboring for me.”

“You underestimate them, Konrad,” Paul retorted. “Their ultimate goal is to go on crusade, where they will labor for our eternal Lord, not a mere temporal statesman like yourself.”

The emperor stared at him a moment. Then he flashed a smile and slapped his brother hard across the shoulder. “Do you know what, Paul, I almost enjoy your company when you display a hint of wit. Try to do it more often.” He turned his attention back to the exercises.

“No wonder the ancient athletes trained in the nude,” a lady said with relish. “Man is a beautiful creature.”

“I think the court ladies should all spin and weave in the nude,” Konrad suggested.

“I’d rather see the ladies bounce around a little,” Jouglet contributed, winking in the direction of the cluster of women in such a way that each was sure she was the intended recipient of the wink.

The drill finished, the squires were applauded by the onlookers, but they were too scared of Willem to break concentration and acknowledge it. At his signal they lined up front to back, facing him. Then he held out his hand, and the page gave him a sword— a blunted blade like the boys were using— and gestured the first squire forward. He sprang at the boy with considerable force, his shoulder and upper back muscles rippling briefly in the sun, which made the ladies titter. The boy parried the blow neatly, fended off three more lunges, saluted with his wooden sword, and went to the back of the line as the second squire stepped up to practise his own defense.

“That’s one of mine!” Konrad said, delighted. “That’s Tomas! I had no idea he could do that.”

“I’m not sure he could before this morning,” Jouglet said.

“Look at Willem of Dole
move,
” Konrad said approvingly, ignoring the ladies’ hilarity behind him. “I looked like that ten years ago. That is genuine beauty.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” Jouglet said placidly. “I prefer a little
bounce.
” Another wink at all the ladies earned another round of brief, private smiles of anticipation.

“Jouglet,” Konrad said, suddenly lowering his voice. “Look over my shoulder. Do any of my men look jealous or put out?”

Jouglet stood and pretended to stretch, turning in a slow arc, as if trying to catch a cooling gust of breeze. Paul, sitting next to Konrad, looked directly over his shoulder and then answered before the minstrel could. “A couple of them.”

Konrad gave Paul a look that let him know how graceless he was being, but then he smiled to himself. “Excellent,” he said. “That is what we’ll do when the training session is finished.”

“What is?” Paul and Jouglet asked in unison.

Konrad whispered with anticipation, “We’ll see what your young man is really made of.”

As a final precaution, on his way back to the town, Marcus rode well out of his way so that he could return as if from Aachen. It was, he hoped, the last time that he would have to resort to such subterfuge. The next time he saw Imogen they would meet before a church door. He’d spent almost every moment of the homeward journey revisiting the sensations of his body within hers, but now was almost nauseated with anxiety at the thought of what could happen should Alphonse slither out of his commitment. It was almost enough to make him confess Imogen’s deflowering to Konrad…no, he could not do that, not after telling Konrad he’d never do such a thing. Konrad’s trust in him was nearly his sole asset. Anyway— nothing would go wrong. They would be married soon, and then it would no longer matter when they’d first been together.

As Marcus approached the swell that opened down into the training field, he saw there was a training session just ending, with the emperor in attendance. Richard of Mainz, one of Konrad’s most accomplished knights, was wearily walking off the field; Marcus supposed he’d overseen the squires’ training session today, although usually he would not condescend to do so. Marcus recognized a number of the dusty, exhausted boys who had been honing their skills. Towering among them, to his surprise, was Willem of Dole, dressed in an undistinguished-looking linen tunic— but still damnably young and handsome. He looked by far the most exhausted of the lot. Marcus dismounted and led his mare around to where the trainees watered their mounts at the southern end of the hollow. He signaled to a blond youth with bad skin, whom he thought he recognized as Willem’s squire, as he was rubbing down the largest of the horses.