Revenge of the Rose (45 page)

So they kept the horses saddled in the stable, but they spent a miserable day inside, Erec pacing the small common room of the inn like a caged wild beast, invoking St. Barbara with every roll of thunder from outside. The rain did not stop, but after dinner the worst of it seemed to have passed, and she begged that they continue on. At least there would be no mosquitoes in the rain, she pointed out.

M
arcus
was grateful for the responsibility of the packing up. This was hardly the biggest move he had to orchestrate, but still it was a huge undertaking— it would take twenty draft horses for the packing and a dozen more for carts (half of them half-filled with gifts for Konrad to bestow on all and sundry) to descend the steep hillside and move north through the Rhine valley. Aware Konrad was still annoyed at his lackluster reaction to the latest matrimonial plan, Marcus tried to be even more impressively efficient than usual, although he could not stop thinking about Imogen. Twice he thought he saw her among the servants, three times thought he heard her voice, once imagined her hands resting on his shoulders, which made him almost cry out with longing. Mastering himself, he directed various servants to pack clothes, weapons, household goods, and kitchen equipment; he assigned the older squires to be harbingers, riding ahead to announce the arrival of His Majesty and his retinue, so that food, beds, and feminine distractions could be properly arranged. Because they did this regularly, the army of workers was well rehearsed and the imperial household could be readied to decamp in a single day. But it was a long day, and Marcus was exhausted by the end of it. He was almost too exhausted to care that he had lost any chance to canvass Alphonse.

Until he crossed Alphonse’s path that night after supper.

Konrad had retired to his chamber with Jouglet, announcing he was sick of hearing love songs. As the court was settling by the smoky fire to listen to a visiting French singer, Marcus was surprised to see Alphonse seated by himself, without oily ubiquitous Cardinal Paul slithering around him. He had to seize the opportunity. He approached the count from the side and stood slightly behind him, in a demure posture, as if he were informing him what wines or other delicacies were available for his enjoyment later on. “Excuse me, milord, may I speak with you?”

Alphonse recognized the voice, shifted uncomfortably and ignored him.

“I make no entreaties,” Marcus continued, understanding his reaction. “But I thought it might be in your lordship’s interest to be aware that I am to be made a duke on August first, at the close of the Assembly. That is less than a week away. The emperor has proposed to betroth me to his daughter.”

Alphonse was gratifyingly taken aback. “But you are…” He hesitated. “Has my daughter called off her betrothal to you?”

Accursed whoreson,
Marcus thought. Politely he answered in his ear, “I have not received any letter from her yet but I understand there may be one on the way.”

“But you have not received it,” Alphonse pressed, and Marcus shook his head. “Then your betrothal to her holds, does it not?”

“I really do not know the answer to that, sir,” Marcus said evenly. “Apparently I have risen so high in His Majesty’s esteem that he would do all this for me, but I am hardly of a station to naysay him. However, if Your Lordship wanted to take the matter up with him, I would be amenable to the original arrangement.” How very like a cleric he sounded. How equivocal, how entirely controlled.

Alphonse excused himself, and to Marcus’s immense satisfaction, headed toward the far end of the hall, and the steps to Konrad’s room.

“I am sick of this round-robin.” Konrad yawned irritably at the back of Alphonse’s head as the older man knelt before him by the fire. Jouglet had silenced the fiddle. Konrad reached out one ringed hand, and a page boy instantly gave him his evening wine cup. “Nobody is marrying anyone. Ever. The wedding mass is hereby banned.”

Marcus had followed Alphonse in, with the conveniently truthful excuse that he had to pack up the royal coffers from the wardrobe; only he and Boiden were allowed to touch the emperor’s treasury directly.

“Sire,” he heard Alphonse say, “the betrothal between Imogen and Marcus was blessed by both yourself and the archbishop of Mainz— “

“I don’t care if Christ popped out of the baptismal font to bless it with his own testicles! I have loftier plans for Marcus, and I want no mention of marriage— or women at all— in my presence for at least a week. None, do you understand? Jouglet, we’ll spend the week listening to the
Song of Roland,
so bury your besotted romances the while.” He drank off half the cup. “If it were in my power I would order everyone celibate for the next week and boot all the women out of the castle.” He drank down the second half and held it out for a refill. “Rise, dammit, Alphonse, and leave the room. Marcus, do not hover over my gold that way, pack what is coming with us and get out. Jouglet, how does it begin, ‘Charles the King, our own great Charlemagne has been in Spain for seven years,’ isn’t that it?”

“Usually, sire, it is phrased so that
Spain
and
Charlemagne
form a rhymed couplet, but otherwise you’re spot on,” said the minstrel and began to bow the familiar melody.

M
any
miles away that night, in County Burgundy, a very young and deceptively fragile-looking dark-haired lady slipped out of a dowdy castle into the faltering rain. With one guard and one maidservant for company and protection, all of them on borrowed— that is, stolen— horses, Imogen rode north through muddy roads toward Mainz. She was a good rider, hardened by her long clandestine trips to tryst with Marcus. But this would be a ride like no other, and she fought back panic as she rode.

W
illem
and his pages appeared the next morning before dawn to attend mass and break the fast with Konrad. Konrad was aggravated with Willem, at least as aggravated as he was with Marcus, but was willing to give him the length and exercise of the journey to Mainz to reform himself. Jouglet had promised His Majesty that Willem finally understood what was required of a knight in Konrad’s court. And indeed Willem’s behavior all morning was admirable; he was suddenly the same earnest and upright youth who’d first appeared a month ago and won the king’s affection almost instantly.

The entire royal retinue descended the crooked sandstone steps to the less-protected lower courtyard, where the servants and the livestock lived. Every horse in the stable was either saddled or loaded down with baggage, and several more had been brought up from the village. It was very crowded. Konrad mounted first; then Marcus; then Willem, on his recovered horse; then Alphonse and Paul; and then the hundred-odd remaining members of the court and keep.

Paul was displeased that Willem had been invited to mount ahead of him. He was even more displeased when he saw Alphonse watching Willem, who’d dismounted again to help the pregnant Duchess of Lorraine onto her horse.

Paul knew how his uncle’s mind worked. “You cannot really think to marry Imogen to him,” he whispered angrily into Alphonse’s ear.

“Marcus is not available. Who else is there?” Alphonse murmured back stubbornly. “If Marcus is Konrad’s right arm, Willem is now his left. He will have status.”

“He was the victim of our mutual plotting,” Paul argued. He pointed out a hawk of some sort high above them as if it were of great interest, as if this were what they were discussing. “You cannot possibly contrive to help him gain in power, Uncle, are you crazy? You’re endangering yourself. And me!”

“There is nobody else,” Alphonse repeated firmly, apparently studying the hawk’s flight pattern with him. “Marcus is being married to Konrad’s bastard.”

“I shall prevent that,” Paul said at once, and almost shook his uncle’s shoulder in desperation. “She wants to keep the veil, and I can see she does. Marry Imogen to Marcus. Then he’ll be indebted to us, so he can help clinch Konrad’s willingness to marry Besançon. And it keeps Willem away from any position where he could harm us.”

Across the courtyard Willem remounted, watching them whispering. It took tremendous self-control not to shriek at them and call them to account before the assembled court. Instead he turned his attention to Konrad and began a detailed conversation about training horses to switch leads while cantering.

By the time village church bells rang terce, they were well on their way up the Rhine valley, in the clear, bright air. Pipe-and-tabor players heralded their procession on ponies at either end of the magnificent spectacle, which included over two hundred riders, dogs and packhorses in the train behind them; half a dozen illustrated banners let the countryside know exactly who was passing. Awestruck peasants watched openmouthed from the field, scythes in hand, as Konrad and members of the court rode along the raised Roman roads straight through the flat, marshy river valley.

The four-day ride under white-hot skies would take them through armies of mosquitoes and occasional swamps to cathedral towns— Strasbourg, Speyer, Worms, and finally Mainz— and at each stop, Konrad would spend the night in the archbishop’s palace. While in Mainz he would stay with His Eminence Konrad von Wittelsbach— a friend, although Bavarian— and remain only long enough for the Assembly, before returning three days south to his favorite castle, Hagenau. So most of the pack animals would be diverted directly to Hagenau, which meant much of the trip could go quickly and, it was wrongly assumed, without incident.

B
y
the time the duo from Dole reached Sudaustat, shortly after midday on one of the hottest days in living memory, Lienor had never been half so pained and distressed in her life. Her tunic was soaked through, and despite the rain that had delayed them yesterday, road dust had collected thick enough on the tunic to render it dully dun. Sweat stung her eyes, caked her hair flat against her head under the riding veil, made the leather reins slippery in her chafing fingers. The only thing worse than staying in the saddle was getting down from it— although she’d been sore so long now that she was almost used to it. And yet she felt a small thrill of triumph as they came near the end of their journey: by force of will she had survived this, and soon she would be exonerated. Finally they were in sight of Koenigsbourg, perched magnificently atop its symmetrical cliffed hilltop…

…without the emperor’s flag of residence flying.

She whimpered to herself a little, trying to make light of it. She rested by a linden, and Erec rode ahead to the porter’s lodge for news. When he returned, he told her apologetically that the royal court had left at dawn. Willem of Dole and Jouglet the minstrel had both gone. If Erec and Lienor could not overtake them, it would be another four days’ ride to Mainz, which in Lienor’s current state was flatly impossible. Erec delivered this news in a tone suggesting he thought they should return to Dole.

Lienor’s face crumpled, but she battled hard to keep herself in control. She brought a sunburned hand to her mouth to stifle a sob; the dirt on her sleeve stung the cracks in her lower lip. Erec considered her, feeling like a mother hen. He could not take her to the castle, obviously, and she was loath to go to the inn where Willem had been staying, terrified that people would suss out who she was and judge her by the rumors. Anonymity was essential, but she desperately needed rest and a bath and a change of clothes.

There was only one place he could think to take her.

To spare her riding through the worst part of Sudaustat, they skirted left around the town walls and entered at the seldom used western gate. Inside, they turned at once to their right and halted at the first small house, the one with the bright swath of scarlet across the door. Gingerly, Erec helped her to dismount, and Lienor almost collapsed against him, the noisome smells of the town the final insult to her overwhelmed senses.

It was quiet here in the heat of the day, and the women were spinning wool on handheld spindles, their secondary source of revenue. They looked up curiously when Erec flung the door open. “Where are we?” Lienor asked, sounding feverish. She stared at the three women, and they stared back at her, all three getting to their feet; she took in their outfits, the setting, the one midday customer trying to slip out unobtrusively, and her enervated gasp suggested she had answered her question for herself.

“You must be Lienor,” Jeannette said, with her usual mix of sympathy and amusement. She nodded approvingly to Erec. “Good of you not to kill her.”

Lienor looked alarmed that a whore could be familiar with her name. “How do you know me?” she whispered, barely moving her cracking lips.

Jeannette shrugged agreeably. “If you didn’t look half dead, you’d pretty much match Jouglet’s descriptions.”

“How do you know
Jouglet
?” she demanded, her voice louder. She tensed in Erec’s arms and pushed away from him to stand upright on her own. “He would never come to a place like this.”

The common women exchanged amused glances. Jeannette grinned hopefully at Erec, seeking permission to respond frankly, but he shook his head.

“She’s very weak, we need your help,” Erec said, with a hopeless gesture. “We missed the king. Please may she just sleep here until she gets her strength back, before we head back home? I’ll pay you— “

Lienor drew herself up. “We are not going home,” she announced, as firmly as her exhausted body would allow. “We are going on to Mainz. My name will
not
remain sullied, I will
not
be known as a
whore.
”

Erec grimaced. There was a moment of loud, leaden silence, and Marthe, looking nowhere in particular, bit her thumb at something.