Revenge of the Rose (21 page)

“Sire, please, this is too important— “

“More important than your emperor choosing his bride?” Konrad demanded in a steely voice, more perplexed than angry. “Are you being insolent? Is that how you reward me for my trust in you? By aping my uncle and Paul? I asked for the scribe. Summon the scribe. You should be sharing in my delight, Marcus, not interfering with it.”

Once the scribe arrived, Marcus stood expressionless as Konrad— his attention still half on the tournament— dictated a hearty if graceless message to Willem’s sister Lienor, telling her that once he had coaxed permission from his Assembly of Lords, he would marry her.

But far worse than Konrad’s message was Alphonse’s gesturing to the scribe that he wanted to employ him when he was free. Marcus knew what that missive would be too.

Nicholas, to thank Willem for his hospitality in Dole, had brought wine and pastries to the safety area and was feeding the tired knight by hand. He turned this task over to Erec when he was summoned by Konrad— who gave him a scroll to courier to Lienor of Dole in County Burgundy. A smile passed between king and messenger; Nicholas understood what it was he was delivering.

And so, obviously, did Alphonse Count of Burgundy. Marcus was on the far side of the platform from him, and there were many dozen gaping noble onlookers between them, but he tried desperately to move between the gaggles to get to the count. The count was furtively whispering to the scribe, an old fat man who squinted a lot. As Marcus approached, he saw Alphonse use his signet ring to seal the document— he was only ten feet away when—

“Marcus my friend!” Jouglet crowed gleefully, materializing inconveniently right in front of him. “Please let me honor you by making you the first audience ever for the ballad I’ve just composed about the gallantry of Willem of Dole! Come over here— ” The minstrel took his arm and pulled him to the left, toward a corner where there was little fighting and therefore not as many spectators. “This will be on a par with
Ywein
or the northern sagas, I’m telling you— you know I’m not arrogant about my works, but really this one is incredibly inspired. Did you
see
that? Wasn’t it
magnificent
?”

“Not now, Jouglet,” Marcus said harshly. “I’m on an errand.”

“What errand could be more important on the day of a tournament than celebrating the tournament’s great hero?” Jouglet insisted.

“Jouglet,”
Marcus snapped and shoved the minstrel aside. Jouglet, undeterred, and knowing Marcus had been delayed enough now, instantly turned to an aging duke with the same hearty invitation, and this time was accepted.

The timing was so horrible that Marcus thought the heavens must be mocking him. He finally neared Alphonse just as the scribe was waddling off in the other direction with the letter— the letter which he knew full well was to inform Alphonse’s daughter, Imogen, that she would not marry Marcus, Marcus who was a nobody, merely the emperor’s steward, from a family that had been serfs three generations earlier and even now was entirely dependent on His Majesty’s beneficence for riches and honor. What was the worth of such a match when the emperor was about to have a marriageable brother-in-law who would be a legend by sundown?

He would have to find the scribe and waylay him before the message was even on its way. Then he would fly south to the castle of Oricourt and marry Imogen at once, before the confusion could be sorted out, before anybody knew the marriage was not to have happened. He would take her to bed and possess her so ardently that she would be carrying his child before her father could call for an annulment.

It was a dreadful way to do things, but any other way was even worse.

The direction in which the scribe had wandered off corresponded exactly with the direction in which the entire crowd now rushed to see Willem attack another famous knight, Odo of Ronquerolles. The two of them met on a mild slope that was turning loose and sloppy from the endless charge of half-crazed chargers, and in unison unhorsed each other violently in a joust. Staggering to their feet, they yanked frantically at the hilts of their swords, drew them, and immediately started dueling. This was a rare instance of actual sword-play, and it was impossible for Marcus to move through or even around the delighted mob.

By the time he found the scribe, on the edge of a safety area, the fat old man had already handed off the missive to a courier. “Where was that message being sent?” Marcus demanded, praying that somehow he was wrong.

The old man shrugged. “To Oricourt, his home in Burgundy, milord, to his daughter Imogen.”

“Dammit!” Marcus swore aloud.

“Curses are foul things, milord,” the cleric said.

“My life is fouler,” Marcus said angrily and walked off away from the excitement, into the middle of a part of the trampled field everyone had their backs to.

It wasn’t a disaster yet. If he had a horse— and there were some of them, riderless, wandering about the field— he could intercept the messenger and then the plan would still work. That’s what he would have to do. There were two easily within reach, both grazing in their bridles, their saddles intact— but as he chose the bay and started walking toward it, he saw Konrad waving to him from the dais, gesturing him back. He stopped. He groaned.

And then he walked back toward his emperor, because he could not do otherwise.

Konrad had summoned Marcus back to the dais because he wanted tripe and pork pastries brought to him as he continued to watch. He marveled that Willem and the other knights seemed able to continue without so much as a break for defecation. “Remember when we were doing that, Marcus?” he said nostalgically, as if it were a long time ago; it had only been a few years. “Look at that, Willem and Odo are still at it. They should just call a draw and go smash up other people.” Marcus looked over. Most of Willem’s red and blue surcoat had long been torn off; his chain armor was ripped through in places; his latest shield was splintered into pieces, he wasn’t even using it…and everyone was adoring him. How had the shy, bumbling country boy from two short weeks earlier turned into
that
? How could he, Marcus, have let it happen?

“I will see that a late dinner is summoned for you from the stores at Orschwiller, sire. May I be excused to the castle after that?”

“Don’t you want to watch the rest of the tournament?” Konrad asked.

“I wish I could, sire, but I have already seen Willem’s abilities.” Marcus hesitated— he had never actually lied to Konrad before. “And there is bookkeeping to be done.” It could still be accomplished— he would grab a loose horse as soon as he was out of Konrad’s sight.

Konrad shrugged. “As you please. I’ll see you this evening, then. Oh, Marcus,” he added as an afterthought. He signaled a pretty dark-haired woman, her elaborate dress revealing she was of royal favor if uncertain pedigree. “Escort Cecilia back up, if you are going anyhow.”

So he would have to delay his escape until he had, in fact, gone to the castle.

But back at the castle, Marcus still could not escape. Before he had even dismounted, every conceivable headache presented itself at his elbow; there were emergencies that only a cruel God would have sent in confluence against him right now. Brother Paul, already upset by the very fact of the tournament, had sent guards out to round up the town’s visiting male prostitutes, and Marcus had to stand as deputy for their arraignment. Domestic officers from all over the Empire were using any pretext of imperial business they could come up with as an excuse to spend most of the day at the tournament. They would take a brief, vigorous detour up the side of the mountain to plague Marcus with absurdities that should have been handled by the seneschals or castellans of the households they had come from: the hayward from Konrad’s Bavarian estate, for example, was there to wail that the harvest was so full this summer he did not have the manpower, with all the reapers and boon-tenants available, to clean and gather the corn, and so sought permission to demand longer work hours of the serfs; the Bavarian bailiff had come as well, in a fit of pique, and wanted to go over the whole years’ records with Marcus to counter that the serfs were already far overused for this time of year, and if it continued they would be dead from overwork before they could help to bring in the harvest— and
that
would make the harvest
much
more difficult. The provost of Hagenau appeared to report a shortage of wood and wanted advice on what to do about it. The chief waggoner of the Saxony royal stables wanted to complain that his overseer had miscalculated what he should be expected to do in a week, and he could not possibly bring up the amount of supplies he had been ordered to. He, as the others, tried to ease Marcus’s judgment with a silver mark wrapped in a handkerchief; Marcus rebuffed it angrily. Once when a new face appeared in the door he caught himself praying it was news that the Count of Burgundy’s courier had been found dead on the road somewhere. He wanted to shout at everyone who entered that his room was not a corridor; he could never remember so many people traipsing through here, most of them bringing problems that should not have been his to start with.

He imagined the sun sliding slowly across the sky and knew his possible salvation was slipping away. He wondered with pained tenderness what Imogen was doing at this moment, wondered with worry how many days and hours she had left before she would learn her world was shattered.

At the tourney field, Jouglet had improvised a competent but very earnest song describing Willem’s gallantry, and was singing it loudly, bowing the fiddle, for everyone who had not been near the moment of Michel of Harnes’s defeat. Willem’s conduct was so extraordinary that the story spread fast around the field until every knight, squire, nobleman, servant, townsman, and villager knew about it. Willem, oblivious, continued to fight, and in the course of the afternoon, although slowing down from weariness, and aware that his team overall was weaker than the French, he collected six more horses and four more prisoners, who were sent back to be held for ransom at the inn.

When the final knight he took hostage— a fellow from Ghent he’d never seen before— told him, quite flustered, that he was honored to be prisoner to the great Willem of Dole, he finally thought of Jouglet and realized, with a mixture of appreciation and resentment, the minstrel probably had as much to do with his instant fame as his own prowess.

He thanked the man warmly. A month ago he would have insisted he did not deserve that kind of credit. Now he accepted it, and even let himself enjoy it. That too, he realized, was a result of Jouglet’s influence.

The sun was far from setting, but shadows were starting to grow long; the air was cooling to the golden moment of a summer evening. It had been a perfect day for the riders. The trumpets were sounded to announce the end of the tournament, silver cups were awarded to Willem and other knights who’d been outstanding, and victors took their prisoners home, to inns, to camps outside the fighting arena, in some cases to the castle. Konrad summoned Willem to the platform and invited him up to Koenigsbourg for a supper feast in his honor, once he had gone back to the inn to clean up and recuperate.

Willem saw Jouglet briefly through the crowd. Jouglet beamed at him, with a strange combination of pride and awe, then disappeared again behind a bustle of expensive tunics.

The knight knew he had been remiss toward his friend. With silver cup in hand, he urged Atlas to move around the crowd to the far side of the platform.

As the bells tolled vespers, a large, weary man on foot, with no armor, carrying nothing but the king’s muddy pennant, arrived at the gate of the inn. Five hostages were waiting for him; the others had already paid their ransom and been released.

So bleary with exhaustion he could hardly keep his eyes open, Willem explained under duress to the innkeeper and his family, to the merchant from Montbéliard, to Erec and his hostages and servant, that he had given his armor away— except the helmet— to the heralds who were always in danger on the field and never in a position to gain anything themselves. He’d also given one of them his silver cup.

“So where’s Atlas?” Erec demanded, alarmed by his cousin’s excessive philanthropy.

“I gave him to Jouglet,” Willem said, with a tired, evasive look.

“You
what
?” Erec shrieked. “He was a gift from my father! I helped you train him! I taught him to change leads! How could you
do
that?”

“I’m sure he’ll give him back, but the gesture seemed correct,” Willem insisted, and collapsed onto one of the staircases in the courtyard. He seemed drunk or drugged from his exertions. “And he made such a delighted fuss over it, right in front of Konrad, it was touching— the fellow acts like an eight-year-old sometimes.” He sighed. “Come now, we must settle scores and wash up, Konrad wants us at the castle for supper tonight.” He groaned. “I am bruised all over.”

“Marcus, where are you going?” Konrad demanded from the middle of the narrow stone courtyard. He loomed larger than ever in the claustrophobic space as the steward came rushing down the spiral stairs, pulling on a wool traveling cloak.

Marcus came up short, almost cringing. He had nearly gotten away. He wondered what would actually happen if he turned his back on Konrad and ran off.

He tried to, but he couldn’t.

“I…if you please, sire, I’ve received news of my uncle in Aachen, he’s unwell and I— “

“Again?” Konrad said with no little impatience. “I should think he’d have died by now. Well you’ll have to start out tomorrow morning, I need you tonight. Boidon is collecting money from my wardrobe— see to it that it’s distributed around the camps for ransom.”

“Sire?” Marcus frowned.

“I want to pay off all the ransoms for the poorer knights, the ones who would be hard-pressed to pay themselves.”

“Sire?”
Marcus was incredulous.