Revenge of the Rose (29 page)

The Burgundian coat of arms.

Oh, God.

“Your sword is with the porter,” Monique said reassuringly, in greeting. “It will be returned on your departure.”

He sat up, using his elbows to keep his balance on the floor. Monique took a few steps away from the fire to give him space, and with a gesture commanded the dog to do likewise. “Good milady, I have come to seek audience with your daughter,” he said, as polite and formal as he could make it sound, willing her not to notice his filthy clothes, dirty face, and wanton-looking hair.

The plump aristocratic woman shook her head. “You cannot see her, Marcus. She is dictating a letter that you had best go back to Koenigsbourg to receive.”

He dragged himself to his knees, slid toward her on the rushes and then prostrated himself right at her feet, clinging to her low leather boots. The hound moved closer with a delicate growl. “Please. Please, Monique, for the love of God, please let me see her.”

“You are making a spectacle of yourself, Marcus,” she said softly. “I do not think you would venture such behavior with anyone else, and you should not venture it with me.”

He rolled over on the rushes and stared miserably at the low arched ceiling. “Please let me see her. You can stay in the room. I’m not asking to be let into her chamber, let her come out here.”

“She is not in a mood to be seen,” Monique informed him, gently.

He indulged in a short, exhausted, bitter laugh. “She will want to see me.”

“Marcus, I know you took a genuine affection for each other— I hadn’t realized how genuine until her reaction to the message from her father— but it will only exacerbate the pain for both of you.”

“Did he say why he’s done it? Has he named the new intended husband?” Marcus demanded, resisting the urge to spit. She lowered her eyes and tried to seem nonchalant, which gave Marcus his answer. “What if Imogen refuses? Good God, does Willem even know your husband’s intentions? Is Willem the least bit interested in marrying her?”

“The issue is not whom she will marry but whom she won’t,” Monique said uncomfortably. “She will not marry you.”

In that moment, Marcus— who did not like deception and was almost never good at it— knew exactly what he would have to do. With masonic precision every step of the plan lay open in his mind. A thrill, a surge went through him: it would not be a pleasant process, or an honorable one, but at the end of it, he would have his lover as his wife.

Affecting resignation, he sat up and tried, uselessly, to comb his fingers through matted hair. He rubbed his sleeve against his face, but the sleeve was so filthy that he only put himself into worse appearance.

“I must be a mess,” he said in a husky voice, barely above a whisper. “Please forgive me, milady, for appearing in your home so out of sorts.” In obvious pain, he pulled himself up to his knees and then with further wincing got to his feet. He bowed politely, then stood at attention near the hearth, with his head slightly lowered, as if awaiting her instructions. This was the public stance he adopted with Konrad— it was a gesture of how entirely he seemed to place himself at her disposal. “How kind of you to receive me on my journey south as the emperor’s ambassador,” he added, giving both of them an excuse for this encounter.

Monique looked at him, troubled, for a long silent moment, then she sighed and adopted a suddenly formal air. “As loyal subjects my daughter and I would of course be delighted to receive our emperor’s ambassador.”

His heart leapt. “Do you mean you will— “

“It is not the custom to allow gentlemen into my daughter’s room, but perhaps our minstrel can entertain you with a song while I fetch my daughter out.” At his look of crazed hope she lowered her voice to add, “You will accomplish nothing by it, Marcus.”

He at once bent in half with a second bow, but she gestured him, rather sharply, to rise. “A supplicant for my daughter’s hand might bow so. The emperor’s proxy does not.”

The minstrel played Bertran de Born songs for what seemed like months while Monique was away. Bertran de Born— the troubadour-knight who’d turned young Henry of England against his king and father. It seemed painfully appropriate. Perhaps it was due to his agitated state, but Marcus found the music graceless and flat, and the singer’s voice was entirely dull compared to Jouglet’s husky tenor. For a fourth time Marcus pushed away the attentive hound and suddenly wished he’d stayed at court and employed Jouglet to aid in this— Jouglet was a skilled manipulator, and Marcus was not; Jouglet had caused these problems, but without knowing of the dire consequences, and would surely amend the scheme if apprised of the whole situation.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Jouglet’s schemes were often too subtle for Marcus to track; it might be in the minstrel’s interest for the heir of Burgundy to be married to the first Imperial Knight— although
why,
Marcus could not guess.

He glanced around the hall, surprised by how repressive and damp it felt, even compared to the harsh environment of Koenigsbourg. The room was hardly large enough for entertaining— not that Alphonse was likely to have many guests on this isolated hilltop, far from even his few devoted vassals. It was a new building, built within Marcus’s lifetime, but it was dowdy and dark; no wonder the count was willing to endure the endless small humiliations Konrad foisted on him for the pleasure of staying anywhere but here. He had always pitied Monique for her marriage; now he pitied her entire situation.

The countess finally reappeared from the door to the yard. Behind her was Imogen, dressed in white. Marcus had a brief, glorious, insane fantasy of grabbing her and fleeing with her across the countryside.

Instead he stood at polite attention as the two drew near the fire. Imogen’s face was livid from sobbing. He wondered when the message had been delivered, by how many hours he had failed to intercept it. Their eyes met. She looked besotted with affection for him, even now. He was enraged to think of another man ever seeing such regard on her face. Of another man feeling her warm hands undressing him. Of another man feeling the cool smooth skin of her buttocks pressing up against him. A man who did not know her and was worth less than Marcus himself, a man who did not deserve her. And would reject her, perhaps denounce her, once he knew the truth. He saw her entire body start slightly, realized she was barely checking the urge to throw herself into his arms. “Milady,” he said hoarsely with a polite bow to Monique. His voice was trembling. He was trembling. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Milady, may I have dispensation to embrace your daughter? It is a gesture of regard from Emperor Konrad.”

Monique looked at the ground, hesitated, sighed, then said, “Very well. As long as it does not surpass what the emperor himself would deem seemly.”

He did not tell her the emperor’s idea of seemliness would practically allow him to mount Imogen naked on the rushes. He held his arms out slightly and took half a step toward her; she ran to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, dissolving at once into such pathetic weeping that he could barely keep his own sobs in check. “Dearest,” he whispered. “I can remedy this.”

Imogen pulled her head back to peer up at his face. In the exaggerated shadows of the hall, she looked not only miserable, but frightened. Marcus wanted desperately to say more, to tell her what he would do now, but he could think of no words that would not somehow give them away to Monique. He wanted to kiss her; her little body felt so familiar in his arms, it was maddening not to do what was familiar now and caress her. Her frightened expression shifted, softening to the warmth of his body against hers. She closed her eyes, nestled against him, quivering.

Monique, sensing the rising heat, cut it off immediately. “Very well, sir, you have more than expressed His Majesty’s chaste affection for my daughter.”

They let go of each other, reluctantly. Marcus was too moved to think of anything to say, even any gracious, empty courtier’s comments.

So Monique took the matter in hand. With firmness, she excused Imogen from the room, and the girl drifted out like a ghost, walking backward, her eyes on her lover until she had disappeared from view. He felt his throat constrict and a single drop of ice-water move through his heart. “We thank you again, good sir, for condescending to stop for a visit on your journey,” Monique said. “Before you continue your trip south and westward, do you wish to bathe?” And lowering her voice, “Marcus, what
is
your journey south and westward? Please reassure me you are not so far gone that you have come all the way here just to sob at my feet.”

Marcus hesitated a moment, then explained briskly, “I must congratulate our future empress. I assume your husband has told you of these plans in his…missive.”

She nodded, avoiding his glance, understanding as clearly as he did why the royal match had inspired Alphonse to break this betrothal.

He knew what to do now, and he could hardly wait to get away…but a good night’s sleep would make him more presentable. “If I may trouble your servants for a bath, and you for a bed, and your groom to trade a mount for the one I have brought here— he is an excellent racer, I would be happy with a docile gelding if that would make the exchange more attractive to you. And please tell your daughter she should face her future with perfect equanimity.”

Monique looked relieved. “Thank you, Marcus. I think of you as a brother from the days you served in my father’s home, and I would like to believe it is possible that in the future you might visit with us, even with Imogen’s husband beside her.”

“It is possible,” he said, smiling. “It is almost certain.”

S
till
in a twilight state before he had quite reached consciousness, Willem became aware of a wonderful, unfamiliar feeling: beside him under the sheets was the warm, smooth body of a woman. He wasn’t sure who she was at first, but she smelled pleasant and familiar. And her hair was short.

“Oh Lord,” he chuckled involuntarily, suddenly wide awake. Despite the minstrel’s clever machinations, this was the first night they had managed to spend together— in fact, the first time since the trip to the whores they had managed to steal any time alone at all.

Jouglet had been extremely vigilant about the general public’s perception of the knight. So she had seen to it for four days the two of them had had the chance to interact only in public, only as friends; Jouglet’s company, in company, was so enjoyable that he could have resigned himself to nothing more than that. But last night she had convinced the emperor he wanted the visiting minnesinger Albert Johansdorf to play him to sleep, and she had come down to the inn to entertain in the yard for three dances, before slipping unnoticed up to Willem’s room and waiting for him to join her there himself. She’d negotiated with Jeannette to keep Erec away until dawn; the page boys and servant were happy to obey their master’s request that they sleep out in the yard on such a hot, muggy night. So Jouglet and Willem had the room alone.

He had never in his life awoken naked beside a woman; it was ferociously erotic. He slid one hand between her thighs and watched her face for a response.

Jouglet stirred and opened her eyes, staring straight up at him. She was alarmed for half a heartbeat; she had never in her life awoken naked beside a man. She blinked once, twice. Then she relaxed, smiled, and reached up with delicate but calloused fingers to stroke his face. He leaned over her at once to kiss her lips, ready to start the morning with some more earnest fornication.

Erec’s voice sounded from the yard, and footsteps began to pound up the stairs outside. With astonishing alacrity, Jouglet fell out of the bed, reaching out for her discarded tunic so that it was halfway over her head before she had even settled on the floor. She curled up like a sleeping child, closed her eyes, and seemed to be slumbering, clothed and contented in the strewing herbs, when Erec threw the door open less than three heartbeats later to let in cool, bright sunshine. He looked cheerier and more relaxed than Willem had ever seen him in his life. “Cousin!” he cried out. “Wake up, champion, the emperor awaits us! It’s hawking today, he’s even bought you your own falcon! And you’ve slept through breakfast again.”

Jouglet’s eyes opened slowly and squinted, as if just now adjusting to the light in the room. “Goodness you’re loud,” the minstrel said, yawning again. “I’m never that bouncy after a whole night with Jeannette! How’s a body to sleep?”

“You’re a bad influence on my cousin,” Erec rebuked good-naturedly. “This is the third time since we arrived he’s slept through breakfast.”

With a tired laugh, Jouglet reached for the smaller pair of breeches on the floor, and slowly stood. As she pulled the drawers on, Willem distracted Erec by throwing off his sheets and saying, “Erec, help me find my shirt, I was drunk last night and can’t remember where I put anything.”

“We had some women in here, maybe they stole the champion’s breeches,” Jouglet suggested, and winked at Willem. “That tall thin one, with the low voice— I wouldn’t trust her with my own shadow.”

Willem started laughing, nervously. He glanced back and forth between Jouglet and Erec, amazed as he was every day that Erec could not see Jouglet for what she was.

And yet, once they were both fully dressed, Willem found it hard to believe— as he did every day— that the minstrel was anything but a young man. There were no affected mannerisms, either way, nothing obvious that changed between Jouglet as woman and Jouglet as man and minstrel. The same vocal inflections, the same gestures, that same infectious laugh, changed without changing. It was seamless. And— when Willem was not near her— vexing.

The day spent hawking was wonderful, especially for Erec. They were attended by tremendous pomp, a pipe-and-tabor player, a herald with the royal flag; the animals were finer and faster than Willem’s own beloved falcon, whom he had left behind in Dole. They went up into the hills west and north of the mountain, where the air was dryer and cool. It was a perfect day. Birches and hazelnuts were heavy with green fruit; lindens and blackberry blossoms flooded the air with their pollen.