Revenge of the Rose (17 page)

“Good day, lad. Can you explain to me why your master is training with the neophytes? I thought he had a little experience under his belt.”

Erec smiled smugly. “He has more than a little, sir. The emperor challenged him to a one-on-one joust last week, and he unseated His Majesty three times, so His Majesty asked him to train the royal squires.”

“Oh,” Marcus said, disappointed. “I thought Richard was training the squires.”

Erec beamed confidingly. “No, sir. After the training session, His Majesty set up three rounds— all of them were Willem against one of His Majesty’s knights, and Willem disarmed them all. He just now defeated Richard of Mainz.”

“Oh,” Marcus said again. Something the size of an olive pit felt like it was digging at his inner organs. “That’s impressive.”

“Yes! Today was the first time His Majesty came to view the training, but I think he’ll make a routine of it now. Even the ladies have come.” He giggled. “Willem needs a patroness, and all the ladies fancy him, but he has no idea how to handle them, poor stupid ass.”

Marcus had followed his gesture toward the pavilion but turned back now to sternly admonish Erec. “That is no way to speak about your master.”

Erec made a dismissive, confident gesture. “He’s my cousin and boon companion. His sister and I were suckled by the same nurse.”

Marcus did not have time to work out why this was bad news, but instinctively he knew it was. “He has a sister?”

Erec whistled under his breath. “Damn all laws against consanguinity, yes, he has a sister. Prettier than any lady up on that pavilion now too. In fact”— he lowered his voice, feeling important to be sharing this with the only person at Koenigsbourg who didn’t know it yet— “it’s a bit of an open secret now. If Willem makes a good showing in the tourney, Konrad is going to make him a member of the court, and send for Lienor with matrimonial intentions.” Marcus started violently, but Erec didn’t notice. “Can you imagine that, sir? Going from poor obscure border-knight to the king’s legal brother in the course of a month? That will certainly win him an heiress or two!” He shook his head. “I envy him, but I could not wish it of a better fellow. Except myself of course. Excuse me, sir.” He turned back to finish dealing with Atlas.

Desperately, Marcus scanned the people milling about on the dais. He saw Konrad— and much worse than that, he saw Alphonse of Burgundy. Did Alphonse know of the handsome young bachelor’s probable ascension? Panicked, Marcus found a groom and handed off his horse, then ran as quickly as his knee would allow him toward the viewing stand.

It was still hot and bright. Willem was exhausted, sore, red-faced from exertion and dripping sweat, but he was very pleased with how the day had gone. There was hardly a better way for him to polish his own skills than to lead these earnest young men through their daily drills and exercises— but the duels with Konrad’s three best knights, well, he had not been expecting those, and he certainly had not expected to win the lot. He’d assumed that in the great court, his abilities would count as little; happily, he was wrong. It was an immensely pleasant surprise. And it was a huge relief to be in his own element, away from the peculiar politics that plagued the castle, even away from Jouglet’s hearty but relentless presence. He could lose himself all afternoon in the minstrel’s songs or stories— the fellow had a beautiful voice, certainly— but being with the squires and knights
accomplished
something; it was brisk, invigorating, useful. And here, at least, he was master. There were few opportunities for him to be in Jouglet’s presence without feeling dependent, and he relished the chance to excel on his own.

As he headed up the hill toward the covered dais to greet Konrad, he saw the minstrel rushing down toward him. “Wonderful work! I think I’m beginning to understand how it all works. You clobbered Gerhard of Metz, my friend— that popinjay thought he would disarm you in a moment! You showed him what’s what!” With an exaggerated lack of coordination, Jouglet tried to repeat the gesture that had knocked Gerhard down.

Willem smiled self-deprecatingly and patted Jouglet’s arm. “Thank you. You could have watched from the bench, you know, gotten a closer look.”

“Brother Paul was insinuating that I was
too
interested in getting a closer look, and anyhow I wanted to hear what the nobles were saying about you,” Jouglet said confidingly, slipping an arm across Willem’s sweaty shoulder. “I made sure they were saying all the right things.”

The knight’s humor dropped a little and he pushed Jouglet’s arm away. “It is not necessary that you spend all your energy inventing my success. I am capable of achieving some of it on my own.”

To his surprise, Jouglet, rather than retorting, made a gesture of retreat. “You’re absolutely right. I get carried away by my enthusiasm; it’s an occupational hazard. You don’t need me. I’ll leave you.”

Willem glanced up at the viewing platform and saw with a wave of alarm that four or five young females were assembled there waiting for him, almost visibly salivating. “No,” he said, reaching out to grab his friend’s elbow. “No, please help me deal with those…people.”

Jouglet squinted, scanning the female ensemble with a seasoned eye. “An excellent smattering, perhaps you can find yourself a lady in that group. I think all of them are married. That’s the ideal scenario, you know. It only counts as courtly love when there’s an obstacle of some sort or another.” A dramatic sigh. “As between myself and your fair sister. I’ll get them in the mood for you.” The minstrel chuckled and darted ahead of him up the hill, to resume flirting, harmless and impudent, with all the silk-draped married ladies. Willem followed more slowly, tired. He stretched his neck to release a knot in his right shoulder.

When he reached the edge of the dais, before he had to deal with the ladies, he was approached at once by the Count of Burgundy, who grabbed his hand with such enthusiasm he almost cried aloud with alarm. The count literally pulled him onto the platform to stand beside him. “My boy, that was brilliant. You’ve done our Burgundy proud,” he gushed loudly, in a familiar tone as if they were old friends. This was the second day of such sudden, extreme, and forced behavior; Willem detested it. When he said nothing in response, the count lowered his voice slightly and added, sycophantically, “There’s a rumor you’ll be commanding the royal troops in the tournament.”

Willem looked uncomfortable. “Some of His Majesty’s men have flattered me by asking to ride on my team, but it would be hubris to say I am leading the royal troops when I’m not royal myself.”

“But you might be soon, I hear,” Alphonse said with that same grating chumminess. “Or at least brother to it— practically the same thing.”

Willem was taken aback. “That is also just rumor,” he said, reddening. “I would not stake my sister’s future on my own luck in war sports— and I doubt His Majesty would stake his Empire’s future on it either.”

“Then the rumor is not well founded?” said a voice behind him. Willem turned to see Konrad’s steward, the tall, good-looking fellow named Marcus, who had disappeared after Willem’s first night at the castle. His black tunic was dusty, and his hair windswept; his narrow face was sunburned and expressionless.

“There is good reason to believe the rumor,” Alphonse said, not looking at Marcus but beaming at Willem. “You are a fine fighter, and I wish you the best of luck at tourney, and great happiness for both you and your sister.” He bowed— obsequiously low— and strode off.

Marcus and Willem stared after him. “I don’t trust that man,” Willem confided quietly. Marcus nodded in miserable agreement, and Willem amended, “And I do not understand him.”

Marcus sighed, pained. “I do,” he said and walked away.

T
he
hundred pounds from Konrad had been spent with extravagant frivolity, under Jouglet’s expert tutelage, with at least a few pennies going to every trade— and almost every individual trades-man— in the town.

And then, the day after Marcus’s return, in the undertow of a gentle wave of summer rain, when Willem was broke again (but the owner of many dozens of tunics, pins, boots, wooden chests, leather satchels, spoons, capes, rosaries and sacred relics, spices, astrological charts, cooking pots, fabrics, musical instruments he could not play, jewelry, and even a few pieces of real paper) the merchant from Montbéliard arrived with an entire caravan of jousting gear for Willem to take on credit. This merchant had been his supplier since Willem was belted and already had pennants in the knight’s red-and-blue. There were lances, shields, trappings for the horses, over-tunics, and pennants and flags of all sorts. Standing in the warm drizzle, Willem tried not to think about the debt he was running up as he outfitted not only himself but also Erec and both his page boys entirely. The other knights— the twenty who had shown up from Burgundy and the thirty of Konrad’s own who had asked to fight under him— would content themselves with pennants of his colors to crown their own particular garb. He thanked the merchant heartily and offered to put him up at the inn, where Jouglet brokered a betrothal between the visiting merchant and Musette, the innkeeper’s daughter.

“You are in everybody’s business, boy,” Willem laughed helplessly, listening to the congratulatory hoopla down in the hall. Cooling gusts danced from one window across the room to the other. The sky was the color of grey glass.

“And everybody benefits,” said Jouglet agreeably. “Come, put on your expensive new dress tunic with the Ypres wool. Konrad wants you supping at the castle again tonight.”

The lance merchant had arrived in an abrupt and endless current of traffic that presaged the tournament. Despite the intermittent drizzle, huge crowds of knights rode into Sudaustat with all their squires and servants, first filling the inns and every other room that could be let out, then setting up camps outside the town walls; common women from around the area had flocked here seeking temporary occupation, and found themselves duly occupied. Farmers and peddlers crowded the streets in a potpourri of languages and dialects, and from prime until nones, sold everything from false souvenirs (“a tooth knocked out of a knight’s head by Michel of Harnes at the tournament in Flanders!”) to equally false miracles (“the holy elixir Willem of Dole drank to crush his enemies on Crusade!”). Konrad had a clever tax for all of them: in exchange for a required donation in their own local currency, each and every visitor was given a handsome badge with the imperial insignia. They were free to take it home with them to show their neighbors. And anyone who had come from Rome was given two badges for the price of one, should they choose to be generous and give one to His Holiness.

Two mornings before the tournament, Konrad gave the whole court leisure to peruse the phantasmagoria. Willem, heading back to the inn from mass at St. Foy’s, noticed Jouglet in a crowd near the silversmith’s, buying something small from a scurrilous-looking peddler apothecary. He was about to cross the square to ask the minstrel what it was when he was surprised by a familiar voice at his side, muttering with fond amusement, “So
that’s
where he gets it.” Willem turned to see the messenger, Nicholas, gazing likewise toward Jouglet’s surreptitious purchase.

“Gets what?” Willem demanded.

Nicholas started but recovered at once and bowed smoothly. “Good morning, sir.” He shrugged one shoulder in Jouglet’s direction. “I was referring to the concoction Jouglet guards so jealously in his wallet.”

“What is it, then?” Willem asked. Other than Konrad’s one teasing comment, Willem had never heard anyone refer to it, but he had always noticed that the minstrel was protective of that little leather belt-pouch.

“It’s to keep his singing voice light,” Nicholas explained with a knowing smile. “Or so they say.”

The messenger slipped away toward the Street of the Bakers, and Willem was about to ask Jouglet directly, but when he turned back toward the apothecary’s cart, the musician had already disappeared. Almost at once, Willem heard the familiar husky tenor singing out the praises of Willem of Dole from the direction of the ironworks, and he hurried away through the green market.

Besides the dubious-looking peddlers, there were musicians, seers, players, acrobats, and jugglers of all abilities literally lining the streets from gate to gate, and well out the northern gate up toward the castle too. And of course there were abbots and crazed religious mendicants pushing through all the crowded areas, warning everyone at the top of their voices that perdition was upon them. Stews and bathhouses in the poorer part of town overflowed from a surfeit of bodies. The sewers grew fouler. The price of victuals tripled each day, even at the inn where Willem was staying; he was grateful that Konrad had taken to inviting him to dine at the castle so regularly. It was worth the climb.

Jouglet was trumpeting the name and deeds of the knight from Dole around the crowded town and out into the camps, as well as endlessly arranging opportunities for Willem to meet attractive young ladies attached to the households of visiting knights and lords. Within a single afternoon, Willem proved himself thrice over a phenomenal failure at flirtation, despite his best attempts; this in no way dampened Jouglet’s attempts to find him someone rich and pretty (“Not to marry, you understand,” Jouglet assured him confidingly. “Merely to worship, so that when I and all the others immortalize you in song, you appear a proper figure of chivalry”). The minstrel also dictated the knight’s schedule, insisting that in these final two days of preparation, his every move somehow be public knowledge. An only-half-jesting rivalry had by now developed between the two: wherever they went, they overheard spontaneous commendations about the knight from Dole, which proved to Willem that Jouglet’s trumpeting efforts were unnecessary, while proving to Jouglet that those same efforts were working very well.