Revenge of the Rose (27 page)

Jouglet, lamp in hand, had arrived at a moment of uncommon calm— there was nobody here. The butler and his assistants were probably helping to unload carts in the soggy lower courtyard. The lack of company added to her unease. She closed the door behind her, aware of the berating she would get from the butler if he came back and found it open. Not certain which jars contained the Burgundy, she set the lamp beside the rows of ceramic and glass and stared at them, as if waiting for one of them to reveal itself.

Large, rough hands grabbed her from behind, and she felt herself pulled back toward another human body. Faster than thought, she kicked backward at her attacker’s groin as hard as she could, leaping toward the weak light of the lamp when he released her with a squeal of pain.

“Dammit, Jouglet,”
a familiar voice wheezed, pitifully, from the damp stone floor.

“Oh, crap,” Jouglet breathed and stepped back to the hulking form lying curled in the darkness. “Sorry! What are you doing down here?”

“Waiting for you,” Willem whispered tersely, sounding horribly pained, and cursed breathlessly between clenched teeth.

On instinct she reached casually toward where she’d hurt him, but he made an unhappy sound and pushed her hand away, complaining, “…worse than anything on the field yesterday.”

“Sorry,” she repeated. “
Why
were you waiting for me?”

Still trying to calm his breathing, Willem gestured her to bring her head close to his, and she did, tilting her ear toward him to hear what he was saying. He raised his own head high enough but, instead of speaking, pressed his lips against hers briefly. Then he relaxed his head against the cold damp floor again and looked up at her, the gentle brown eyes hopeful but unassuming in the dim lamplight.

Jouglet was thrown. She stared down at him a moment, then the corners of her mouth jerked a little, one side, then the other. “If I were a lady I’d slap you,” she informed him.

“But, of course, you’re
not
a lady,” he answered, and despite the pain he managed to smile up at her tentatively.

“This is very dangerous,” she said. She could almost hear her own heartbeat.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I’ll go out first, just give me a moment to recover.”

Jouglet hesitated and then kissed him. Both sets of lips parted, both tongues darted, explored, and then nearly pulled away again. Jouglet hummed a low, thrilled sound, trying not to laugh from anxiety, and Willem reached up to wrap his arms around her and pull her to the floor where he still lay curled— but a sound outside was clearly the latch of the door being worked, and they heard the butler’s distinctive, phlegmatic cough.

“Hey now, who’s in here?” the rain-pecked old knight demanded, squinting into the darkness. This man was so familiar with the sounds of his cellar— an office he took seriously as a source of great honor— he would have noticed a new beetle’s lair. He pocketed a lot of coinage on the side for not reporting identities.

“It’s just myself, sir, and Willem of Dole,” Jouglet said reassuringly, sitting upright. “He was helping me to find the Burgundy wine, but we bumped into each other in the dark.” Quickly, before the cellarer’s eyes could adjust, she ran her hand along Willem’s cheek. He reached for it, to kiss the wrist he had twisted so harshly the night before. Then she had to scramble to her feet to avoid looking suspicious.

The butler found the wine from Burgundy with ease, and they went out together into the gallery of the courtyard, almost able to feel each other’s heartbeats and confusion as they returned to Konrad’s chamber. The air between them as they climbed the narrow spiral steps side by side felt so charged Willem was surprised it did not crackle audibly. He’d been pleased with himself for arranging this, but now he was fighting hard against an erection, which would be inconvenient back in Konrad’s room.

Fortunately, the monarch immediately demanded that Willem play one more round of chess against Alphonse, so he himself could coach Willem to a winning game; this gave Willem an excuse for sitting down. Each time the knight began to move a piece to an ill-considered square (which was nearly every move), Konrad would warn him what all the consequences could be. Despite this intellectual solicitude, Willem still lost to Alphonse, because he was so distracted he could barely keep his eyes, let alone his mind, on the board. Jouglet, who annoyed Konrad by being very distracted too, stared absently at the window shutters for the rest of the afternoon and played tunes of such agitation that the dogs began to whine.

“You are both overwrought from your various exertions yesterday,” Konrad announced, by way of grudging pardon, and then informed them, “happily, you will each be recovered by suppertime.”

But after the supper entertainment, Willem approached His Majesty to beg an early leave for the night. He had one eye on Jouglet, who was showing one of Konrad’s younger squires how to sound the fiddle with the bow. Jouglet frowned at him warningly when she felt his attention on her, but the second time he made eye contact, she looked away, then risked the slightest nod. An anticipatory thrill ran down his spine, and yet again— it had happened all afternoon— he had to concentrate hard to control tumescence. Luckily he was bent deeply over his own midsection in his bow to Konrad.

“Already, Willem?” Konrad said, sounding surprised.

His ubiquitous unwanted brother, perched to his left, said, “Are you taking our friendly young minstrel back to your inn with you?”

Before Willem could work out a response to this, Konrad turned smoothly to his brother, smiling. “Forgive me, Paul, we neglected to invite you. We’re going down to the town in search of common women. Already time to put on our disguises, Willem? Would you like to come, brother?”

“You’re what?” Paul said, appalled and instantly suspicious.

Willem tried to think of something to say to hide how startled he was by the announcement. “My…cousin knows where to find them,” he stammered. “They share a house at the edge of town. We went there the other night. With Jouglet,” he added helpfully.

Konrad smiled. With the back of his hand he smacked his brother heartily, much harder than he needed to for a friendly gesture, right in the gut. “Much more convenient than in our day, eh, Paul?” he said laughing, as the cardinal grunted. “Remember? Wandering the streets, finding only one and having to take turns? I always let you dive in first, and you never thanked me, little ingrate. But that’s all water under the bridge. You can come with us tonight if you like and have your own this time.”

“
Absolutely
not,” said Paul, with an edge of amusement to his disgust, as if he could not wait to share this anecdote of shamelessness with someone who would snicker at it with him.

Konrad smiled serenely at his brother. “Recall that your sainted namesake thought the world was ending.”

“What?” asked Paul.

“Saint Paul. Thought the world. Was ending.” Konrad spoke with cocky precision. “His repressive code of conduct was not intended to guide humanity for the next twelve hundred years, only for two or three. If he knew he’d made an arithmetical miscalculation about the Second Coming, he surely would not have objected to
our
coming, in whatever manner suited us.” He grinned and poked his brother’s midriff. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Paul brushed the royal hand away. “You lack the imagination to dream up such a convenient heresy,” he announced, imitating his brother’s affectation of affection. “Who provided you with such a rationale? Jouglet, I suppose?”

Konrad laughed triumphantly. “No, you did! Shortly after you took your vows. You almost used to be fun, Paul. Willem, tell Jouglet what we’re up to. I must go dress for the occasion.” Winking at Paul he added slyly, “Just like in the old days.”

T
he
porter at the rough half-timbered relay hut thought at first the muddy man on horseback was drunk, or demented, beating furiously on the gate with the flat of his hand. The porter held up a rush light and the rider blinked, cringed, made horrible faces. “Is that His Majesty’s steward?” the porter gasped. Marcus nodded, his throat too dry to speak. He tried to push the light away. The porter sucked air into the gap between his mossy bottom teeth. “You look horrible, sir, have you fallen ill?”

Marcus shook his head and gestured impatiently toward the stable. The porter, understanding, called for a fresh mount, a wineskin, and some food. Eyes wide, impressed with himself for recognizing Marcus despite the lack of imperial livery, he asked excitedly, “What’s the news, then?”

Marcus shook his head, too uncomfortable to speak, but then forced himself to mouth, “Messengers?”

The porter nodded at once. “Oh, surely, two royal riders there’ve been, both for Burgundy. Last one came through at nones to trade horses. What’s happening in Burgundy, anyhow? Always seemed like a backward place to me.”

“No food,” Marcus said voicelessly. “No time for food, just give me a new horse.” Nones— at least seven hours ago. But the two couriers had left Sudaustat about ten hours ahead of him; so he’d gained three hours today. It was a four-or five-day ride to Burgundy; perhaps he could still overtake one of them. He doubted he was capable of murder, but he’d been calculating all day how large a bribe he could afford— or, should he manage to overtake Nicholas, what array of threats might bend the young man to his will.

T
o
keep the party small and unobtrusive Willem and Erec had been charged with the duty of His Majesty’s bodyguard. So four figures in simple burghers’ cloaks and tunics made their way through the drowsing streets of Sudaustat, toward the brilliant, just-washed sunset over the western gate of town, an area Konrad usually avoided. The streets were bad here, with loose rock and holes from the rain-water sometimes knee-deep. From the north gate they had to pass the butchers’ stalls, where offal sat stinking in the wet sewers and the waste from tanners and smithies wafted sharply from two streets over. Everything was slightly squishy with mire. Konrad held a scented kerchief to his face and followed after Erec, who was thrilled to be the navigator for this undertaking.

When they came to the small low building with the red-swathed door, Erec rapped once and stepped out of the way for the trinity of his elders.

It was quieter inside tonight, since much of the tournament traffic was dispersed; only a handful of the itinerant women were still in town for business. There was one trestle table up, and about a dozen men around it, most of them drunk and a couple of them even flirting feebly with the women. Seeing Jouglet, Jeannette and Marthe clapped their hands together and rushed around the drunken flirters toward the quartet— then Jeannette, recognizing Willem, pulled up short. Marthe did not; gleefully she made a beeline for the knight and began to run her hands up and down his chest, bending over to show off her cleavage to the others while looking up at him with fluttering eyes. “Oh, milord, I’ve
missed
you,” she said in a throaty, plaintive voice.

Konrad watched her, tickled. “Pity Paul isn’t here to see this,” he said to no one in particular.

“I haven’t enjoyed anything since our tryst. You were so generous, in every sense.” To the other prostitutes, she said slyly, performing, “His nose is large because it’s been broken, but the rest of him is large by Nature’s own designs.” And her hand ran down toward Willem’s groin; already blushing to his hairline, he grabbed her wrist to stop her, with a weak, polite smile.

“He’s a gentleman,” Konrad said to Marthe, explaining Willem’s unwillingness to be publicly groped. “He wants to pay you first. So off with you, then.” He grinned at Willem. “That’s why we’re here, after all, and you deserve first pick.” He gestured broadly, and for a moment Willem was afraid Konrad was about to wallop his bruised shoulder yet again with one of his enthusiastic displays of regard. “Go find yourself a corner and enjoy a well-earned rut.”

“But surely the grand hero deserves special treatment to celebrate his victory,” Jouglet declared, and gestured toward the ceiling. “I know there’s a private closet in the rafters, the mistress of the house has indulged me in the use of it.”

“The charge is tripled for that indulgence,” said the mistress of the house, appearing suddenly at the table. She winked at Jouglet.

Jouglet made an expansive, insouciant gesture. “My credit is good here, isn’t it? My treat.”

Stone-faced, avoiding Jouglet entirely, Willem allowed himself to be taken up the rickety wooden ladder nailed to the wall. He and Marthe disappeared into a cavity in the ceiling.

The three remaining customers looked around. Pointing at Jeannette with a knowing smile, Erec informed His Majesty, “She’s good.”

Jeannette was staring hard at Jouglet with an occasional glance after Willem and did not react to the commendation. Konrad followed Erec’s gesture and his face lit up. “Jeannette!” he boomed without thinking. “Lovely Jeannette!” He grinned at Erec. “You’re right, she’s very good. Jeannette, tonight you’re mine.”

Jeannette recovered herself at once and slid up beside the emperor, crooning into his ear, “I recognize you, Your Majesty, so if your pleasure is to remain incognito, perhaps you should take one of the visiting girls.”

Konrad had closed a hand over one of her breasts when she had pressed against him, and he squeezed it now, smiling. But with one firm finger she turned his face to meet hers and raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and he released her. “You’re right,” he said. “No thrill in being secretive when the girl already knows the secret. Find me a snug one.”

“The blonde,” Jouglet said confidently.

Jeannette nodded and pointed to the smallest of the three young women who had lined up behind them. She was not a blonde; none of them were, really, but she was the palest of the trio. “Jehanne has come all the way from Bremen; she will never recognize you,” Jeannette promised in a whisper, and Jehanne, at her gesture, curtsied and took a step forward.