Chapter Text
Saarbrüchen, Holy Roman Empire, March 4th, 1224
Two letters arrived in Saarbrüchen on the same night, two letters from very different Ventrue elders, addressed to the Prince of the Saarland. They were nothing if not predictable in their differences.
Lord Hardestadt’s letter was very formal, and also straightforwardly arrogant in its assumptions:
We understand that your sire and Our brother-in-blood, Sigurd, the Prince of Saarbrüchen and the Saarland, has succumbed to what appears to be a lengthy period of torpor, and you have claimed your place on his throne. We are not certain if that means We should offer you Our condolences or Our congratulations, or perhaps both. As you are Our nephew-by-blood, and we have not yet even met, We do believe it is time We rectified that. Therefore, Our traveling court will be visiting Saarbrüchen sometime in midsummer. We will discuss the matter of your fealty at that time.
“Discuss my what?” Christophe, the newly crowned Prince of Saarbrüchen, Siersburg, and the Saarland, was coldly furious at his so-called “uncle’s” presumptions. “I owe him nothing, certainly not my fealty; if I owe fealty to anyone, it would be the Lady Julia Antasia of Frankfort—she was my teacher on the Via Humanitas. I am a proud Antasian Prodigal, not a bloody Patriarch!”
Count Gaston, the Captain of the Prince’s Guard, scowled. “He dares much, Hardestadt does. He forgets that I am still here, and I am not in torpor—”
“But you are Brujah, not Ventrue. Your fealty clearly goes to Christophe, as does mine. I fear he sees neither of us as sufficient deterrent to his claim on Christophe’s fealty—” Lady Alianora, the Prince’s Privy Counselor, said. “But his letter is not the only one you received. Shall we open the other?”
The other letter was from the Lady Julia Antasia of Frankfort, and it was also predictable in its humanistic concerns—which, as Christophe had said, was also in the Lady’s nature.
My dearest Christophe, it was with great shock and sincere grief that I heard the news of Prince Sigurd’s torpor. Please know you have our love and support, and of course our most sincere condolences as you begin to navigate the treacherous shoals of your new position as the Saarland’s rightful Prince. If I can provide any comfort or service to your Highness, please do not hesitate to let me know….
This letter was also passed around, so that Christophe’s privy counselors could read it. It was written in the elegantly proper Latin of the ancient Roman Republic, in Lady Julia’s own graceful hand. Alianora had no trouble reading it, of course—she was very familiar with the old forms, even if her own sire was a few centuries younger than the lady who’d written this missive.
Christophe sighed. “Do you think if I asked her to stand between me and Hardestadt, she’d be willing to do that—no, I’m not serious,” he reassured Alianora, who had given him a horrified side-glance. “I’m just… I don’t know, frustrated with the current… situation.”
“What you need is a wife,” Alianora told him. “Someone else you can have a blood-bond with, so pledging fealty—especially in blood—to another Ventrue would be less of a personal risk for you.”
“Sigurd did not pledge fealty to Hardestadt, I’m pretty sure—”
“No, he did not,” Gaston said. “But Sigurd was quite possibly Hardestadt’s elder, and a much better warrior. He didn’t pledge fealty to anyone else—but he could get away with that.”
“You, my prince, likely cannot.” Lady Alianora, however, was thinking about his dilemma, and what might be a possible solution. “I know we talked about seeking a bride for you from the line of Mithras—”
“But Mithras is in Britain,” Gaston felt obliged to point out. “So are most of those descended from him. Too far away, to be honest.”
“Especially if we need to provide our young prince with a bride before Hardestadt and his court arrive in this midsummer—” Alianora said. “It’s a pity, really, that this Lady Julia doesn’t usually Embrace young women—"
“Who told you that?” Gaston asked.
“I did,” Christophe said. “At least, I never met any—”
“She may not actually Embrace them,” Gaston said. “Though in truth, I’m not really convinced of that. However, she certainly teaches—and fosters—more than a few. And she’s a lot closer than Britain.”
“So you think I should seek my bride among the Lady Julia’s students in Frankfort?”
“That would seem to be the best solution,” Alianora said. “And as her letter does ask what comfort or service she can provide—I think you should definitely take her up on that offer.”
“Very well, I will—wait. I guess I can’t actually go there myself, can I? Not like I did before—in fact, my lady, when we first met, I was returning home after a few months in her court.”
Gaston shook his head. “No, your highness. I’m sorry, but you cannot leave your domains—not if you wish to actually keep them. Don’t give your blood siblings any opportunity to move against you.”
“Which I fear Hardestadt would be only too happy to take advantage of,” Alianora said. “If he isn’t whispering in their ears already—but I think he will wait until you respond before he makes any more overt move. No point in challenging your right to the throne if you’re going to submit to his authority, after all.”
“But that also means neither of you can go in my stead,” Christophe said. “Who else can I send?”
“I daresay the Countess Thérèse de Vere would be amenable,” Gaston said. “Especially if you promise her she can plan your wedding.”
Christophe sighed, and nodded. “I may regret making that promise,” he admitted ruefully, “but that does seem to be something a Toreador would be useful for. Though I’m not certain I can trust her, when it comes down to actually selecting my bride, to look out… well, for what my best interests truly are, rather than what she thinks my best interests should be.”
Alianora thought for a minute. “I might have an idea about that,” she said. “As it happens, I’ve also recently received a letter—from my first childe, Francesco Dantini, who happens to be a priest…”
“Wait,” Marius held up a hand, looking at his sire with no small degree of shock. “You’re telling me I have a brother? And he’s older than I am, and a priest? And you’re only telling me this now?”
“My sire once gave me permission to Embrace, some years ago, maybe two or three decades before you were even born,” Alianora explained. “Yes, the man I chose was a priest. He was one of my teachers, a scholar, and also, as it happened, my confessor. He was dying of a fever at the time, so like you—there was very little time to lose.”
“I see. And did your sire, the almighty Prince of Milan, approve of him?”
“No, not really,” Alianora replied, with a little shrug. “And he made sure to let us both know how very much he did not approve, at least until Father Dantini demonstrated his talents as a courier and a diplomat.”
“And did you… care for him? As you did me?”
“Mario.” She reached out, laid her hand on his cheek. —I care very much for both of you, she sent to him privately, so he could see she truly meant it.
What he’d really meant with his question was, Was he also your lover?—but he suspected he already knew the answer to that one, too. I guess he wasn't that celibate, was he?
“Where’s he been all this time?”
“I… sent him away, for his own safety,” she said. “Gaius was… not kind to him. So I sent him into exile, before Gaius could break him any further. He wrote to me… for a while. Then he didn’t… and for a good long time, I thought he must be dead. But he must have heard the rumors, when we escaped Milan, and when Sigurd granted us sanctuary here in the Saarland. Since then, we have written a few times over the years. I plan to write him, inviting him to… to come here, and present himself to our Prince. And perhaps then, if Christophe and Gaston approve, to undertake a small diplomatic… mission… on behalf of our prince.”
Why? he wanted to ask her. What for, why would you suddenly now ask him to come? Are you tired of me now? Instead he asked, “Are there others? Other… blood siblings, I mean?”
“No, you and Francesco are my only childer.”
“Will you Embrace someone else… again?”
“Not as long as we reside here—the Prince is Ventrue, and we are Lasombra. He cannot afford to allow either of us to Embrace. You should know that much, at least.”
“Believe me, I know.” It had never even occurred to him that he might want to Embrace another. How could he—as a bastard—Embrace yet another bastard?
“It also means," she continued, "that whether or not I wish it, Father Dantini cannot stay in Saarbrüchen. But he may be able to handle this mission, and that will doubtless be enough for Christophe to welcome him for a few weeks. And perhaps there are other domains nearby—like Frankfort—where he can.”
“Frankfort is not that near…” Marius felt obliged to point out.
“It’s closer than Rheims, which is where he is now.”
“And what is this… ‘diplomatic mission’… you’re hoping he will take on?”
“So,” Marius commented later to Ayesha, as they lay entangled together in her bed at the bathhouse, “it appears that my brother is coming for a visit.”
“I didn’t even know you had a brother…” Ayesha was very comfortably curled against his shoulder, one arm across his ribs, her fingers idly playing with his chest hair.
“Neither did I. Apparently my lady was keeping him as a surprise—or perhaps, as a spare, if I didn’t work out to her satisfaction. He’s a priest—a mendicant friar now—who didn’t get along with His Highness of Milan any better than I did, though at least she had permission to Embrace him.”
“Mmm-mmm.”
“He’s also—apparently—being trusted with this diplomatic embassy. He’s being sent as an envoy to Frankfort, along with Countess Thérèse and that Tzimisce, to go select a bride for Christophe.”
Ayesha stretched, which did interesting things to the way her naked breasts slid against his skin. “I suspect,” she said, “that’s a good, balanced group. I mean, as far as the embassy’s purpose is concerned. The Countess Thérèse is included because she would insist that only she is qualified to pick out Christophe’s bride, your brother-the-priest will appeal to the highborn Lady of Frankfort to actually let them take one of her precious female students, and the Tzimisce is there to watch their backs coming and going.”
“I understand why neither Gaston nor my lady are going—I just wonder why I wasn’t included? I asked Christophe, and he only said, ‘because I read Tristan and Iseult…’ and I couldn’t get anything more out of him.”
“Ohhh.” Ayesha nodded, knowingly. “Well, I certainly can understand that.”
“Understand what?”
“Think, Mario. Remember what happens in Tristan and Iseult—you’ve at least heard that story, even if you’ve never actually read it.”
Marius frowned, thinking. “Isn’t that the one where the King sends one of his knights to go get his bride, and… oh, fuck. He really doesn’t trust me, does he?”
“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, Mario. It’s that… when it comes to women, I suspect he’s comparing himself and his desirability to his future bride to you and yours. It just doesn’t occur to him that he has his own kind of sex appeal, that could be very alluring, to the right woman… And he’s seen you attract and feed from all kinds of women, while he’s always had to settle for nuns.”
“But nuns don’t marry… do they?”
“You’re asking me?” Ayesha, who had been raised (at least nominally) Muslim, asked. “But no, they do not, or so I’ve always heard. But what else is it about nuns? What do nuns have that most highborn women do not?”
“…they’re all virgins?” Marius guessed. “They take vows of celibacy and obedience, as brides of Christ, right?”
“I suppose, but that’s not what I meant. They’re all educated. Especially the sisters in the Red Order. Highly educated—most of them can read Latin, and write in both Latin and their own languages, whatever those are, and they study books all the time.”
“Oh.” Marius remembered a conversation he’d once had with Christophe on the topic of women, which he now was remembering in a whole new light.
“I need a certain kind of woman,” he’d said. “Otherwise, I just…can’t…”
“Can’t what?” Marius had asked, rather flippantly. “ Christophe, I'm not talking about marriage here, I'm talking about fucking ."
“I know,” Christophe had replied. “But I need her to be intelligent. And educated, and gentle. I can't... taste... her, otherwise."
"Taste her—well, yes, there is that, but it’s not like they're going to complain—Wait, what...?" Marius had suddenly realized he was missing something. "What do you mean, you can't taste her—that's the whole idea, isn't it? I mean, in addition to the fucking, that is—"
That’s what he meant, Marius now realized. It’s his Ventrue blood, the curse of his heritage. Just like mine is not having any reflection.
“Well, in that case,” he said. “I can see why they’re going to Frankfort and the Lady Julia Antasia. Her students are likely not nuns…”
Saarbrüchen, Holy Roman Empire, April 23, 1224 (six weeks later)
It had been decades since he’d last seen his sire. Yet Francesco Dantini still felt the pull of the blood-bond between them, even after so many years. She was still beautiful, still very much beloved, still the undying center of his heart.
He also felt a flicker of jealousy for the slim, blond and handsome young man standing beside her—whom he assumed could only be her newest childe, Marius, a former Crusader and knight, one of the powerful Della Torre family of Milan.
So Francesco chose to ignore him. His eyes were only on the Lady Alianora dell’Aquila, his muse and his most beloved lady. He felt the familiar rush of affection, of purely visceral joy in her presence. He let that joy wash over him, and dropped to his knees before her, bowing his head. “Madonna.”
“Francesco,” she murmured. Her small hands caressed his tonsured scalp, stroked over his hair, and tipped his face up to meet her eyes.
—Beloved. Come, let me introduce you, and then she spoke aloud, in Latin: “Your highness, may I present my eldest childe, Father Francesco Dantini?”
Francesco suddenly realized that the young man was the Prince, not his brother. Younger even than he first thought—barely out of his teens—and Ventrue, not Lasombra. This was Christophe von Saar, on whose behalf he was meant to be an envoy. He bowed his head in the young Ventrue’s direction. “Your highness. Please forgive me—”
“Rise, Father Dantini,” the young Prince said, warmly. “Any childe of the Lady Alianora is welcome here in our domains.”
“I thank you, your highness, for your welcome,” Francesco replied, and got to his feet, where he towered awkwardly over both of them. “My lady has invited me here to be of service to you, as your envoy, or so I understand?”
The youthful features blossomed into a smile. “Yes. I—I hope you will, anyway. You’re going to visit my old mentor, the Lady Julia Antasia, the Prince of Frankfort. And you’re going to ask her… to recommend one of her students to be my wife.”
The Prince seemed very young. He was, Francesco realized—he’d been Embraced only a few decades ago. He clearly had few of the Ventrue blood-disciplines, and yet, if Lady Alianora was advising him, he couldn’t be that unlearned in the political arena. Or the art of diplomacy. He fought down another wave of jealousy—to have the Lady Alianora as his tutor!—and then responded to the Prince’s request. “I am honored by your trust, your highness. But was there no other from your own court you could send? I fear I am a stranger to you, that I do not know you well enough—”
“I am also sending the Countess Thérèse de Vere, she is a Toreador—and I think I will also send Lord Jovan Ruthven, as a guardsman for you both.” The Prince paused, thinking. “But the Countess… while she does know me, she is inclined to think too highly of her own judgment, if you can understand what I mean by that. Your sire, whom I rely on most confidently, recommended you as a neutral and diplomatic voice in their company.”
“I… see,” Francesco said. No doubt Alianora would fill him in later as to what the real problem was with the Toreador countess, but he had to admire the Prince’s way of delicately phrasing it. “Does your highness have a particular student in mind, or would you prefer to leave that choice entirely in the Lady Julia’s hands?”
“I—I never actually met any of the female students,” Christophe admitted. “We were instructed and housed separately. I’m rather certain that Lady Julia promised that very thing to the sires and grandsires who sent their daughters to her court for education in the Via Humanitas, that they would not be exposed to her other students, who are…well, male.”
“Of course,” Francesco had heard how carefully future Cainite brides were sequestered—until they were traded away to be married. It wasn’t their maidenhead most at risk—it was the purity of their blood, or rather, their tongues, which would only taste one other Cainite’s blood after their Embrace—the husband they were bound to. Having mixed classes with other male Cainites—that could only lead to temptation, and thus trouble, at least for some. His sire Alianora, he knew, had not been so sequestered, and had… suffered for it. But her sire had never intended her to be anyone’s bride, either.
“I have suggested to his highness,” Lady Alianora said, “that he write a personal letter to his future bride—one intended for her eyes alone. You, not the Countess, will carry this letter for him, and hand it over to the Lady Julia when you arrive in Frankfort. Let her choose its ultimate recipient. I also suggest,” she added dryly, “that the Countess Thérèse not know the letter that you carry even exists, else she will be most aggravating with her attempts to sneak a peek at it—it’s really best not to tempt her.”
“As you command it, my lady,” he said. “I will be honored to be your secret courier, your highness.”
Prince Christophe’s smile of gratitude was only echoed by his Lady’s,
Francesco had left the Prince’s private chambers, and was following a mortal page across the courtyard on his way to the guest quarters, when he was accosted by a dark-haired young man in mail and the surcoat of the Prince’s Guard. “You. Monk,” he said, in fluent Milanese Lombardic. “Why have you come here?”
Francesco turned and regarded him warily—but with some curiosity as well. “That would depend,” he said, in the same tongue (but with a slight Pavian accent), “on who was asking. I presume, Sir Knight, you are Marius Della Torre?”
“I am.”
Francesco felt another pang of jealousy—and this time, his target really was standing right in front of him, and he was young, and exceedingly handsome--which gave Francesco’s reply something of an added bite: “I am Father Dantini. Not ‘monk’—if you please. And I am here at the bidding of our mutual sire, which I am sure you already know. Just as I know she would have at least told you my name, and perhaps even why she called for me—” he paused and added, deliberately sounding speculative, “but then again, perhaps not?”
Even as those words left his lips, Francesco regretted saying them—his conscience was already nagging at him, with his Lady’s likely remonstrance—like it or not, he is your brother. But he could not recall them now, only wait to see how this arrogant young knight would respond.
And predictably, the sharpness of his words was not well received. Marius’ eyes narrowed, his hand went to his sword. “Did she not tell you of me? I—who was the cause of her banishment?”
Francesco slid his hands inside the sleeves of his brown monk’s habit. “She did,” he answered, as calmly as he could. “But not in those words. Indeed, she credited you as being the agent of her liberation.”
“Liberation?” Marius had clearly not been expecting that.
“You did meet her sire, Gaius Aquileius Augustus, the prince of Milan?” Francesco asked, raising one eyebrow. “How did he treat you?”
“He referred to me as my lady’s unwelcome bastard, and ordered me staked,” Marius replied bitterly. “He said I would never be considered a son of his House—but that doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve earned my place here, and you are not going to ruin that.”
“I’ve no intention of it,” Francesco said, even though he realized in some small part, he secretly longed to take this arrogant fellow down a peg or two. That would serve no one, however. And my lady would certainly not approve. “I am well aware that his Highness cannot afford another Lasombra in his court. But he and our Lady did task me with an errand on his behalf, which I shall gladly undertake.”
“And after that? Will you go back to France?”
“That remains to be seen. But I will not be here, and that’s all you have need to know.”
“Good,” Marius growled. “Because you are not wanted here.” He turned on his heel, and stalked away into the shadows.
Francesco sighed. Fine. So I have a pissy-tempered knight for a brother. Then he turned back to the page, and said, in French, “I’m sorry for the interruption. You were going to show me to where I can rest?”
“Yes, monsieur,” the page said. “This way, if you please, Father—”
Francesco followed.
On the road between Saarbrüchen and Kaiserslautern, April 26th—May 4th, 1224
They set out on their journey to Frankfort only three nights later. Francesco had met his other fellow travelers—the Toreador Countess Thérèse de Vere, and the Tzimisce warrior-sorcerer Jovan Ruthven—several times in the past two nights before they actually departed.
The Countess Thérèse he identified immediately as a court socialite, busybody, and harpy, though of basically good intent with regards to their undertaking—it was truly important to her to find their Prince a suitable wife (and not just because that meant she had a free hand in planning the wedding). The Tzimisce was more of an enigma—he was, in fact, the first of that blood Francesco had ever met. Though as a traveling companion, he proved himself to be everything Francesco could wish for; alert and watchful, good with horses, and extremely competent when it came to reading the weather, keeping them on the right road, handling their little campfires, and overseeing their guards and wagon-drivers.
The Toreador countess, however, apparently found the Tzimisce’ presence incredibly frustrating. It did not help that Jovan Ruthven was truly beautiful. It also did not help that Countess Thérèse was trying so very hard to, as she put it, “get to know him better…”—by which Francesco quickly determined she meant utterly seduce him. She did not try this with Francesco himself; he wasn’t sure if it was because he was, at best, homely in appearance (especially in comparison to Jovan), or because as a monk, he was presumably under vows of chastity, or because she knew his heart had already been given to his Lady. And it was rather interesting to see how the Tzimisce skillfully slipped clear of any hints, excuses, or other ploys she made to get him alone with her.
On the road, he did this by engaging in conversation with Francesco, in Latin, which Thérèse did not speak nor understand, at least not at a conversational level. (Francesco was fairly certain she knew only enough Latin to follow along in Mass, and not much more). Jovan, however, was something of a scholar, and Francesco was delighted to trade (and discuss) books with him, which provided hours of conversation on the road.
Francesco was also careful to spend equal time with the Countess, which he personally considered as penance—for shutting her out of his conversations with Jovan Ruthven the rest of the time. In truth, she was not nearly as flighty as some other Toreador he’d met—the fact that she had risen to prominence in a German Ventrue court was proof of that. She was keen-witted and a good observer. She also knew almost every Toreador in the Empire, at least by name and reputation. Francesco resigned himself to hearing far more gossip than he ever wanted to know on people he would likely never meet—but occasionally, her talent for gossip not only contained little gems of relevant information, but also proved extremely useful.
Such as when they encountered a French Toreador knight and his mortal squire at a rustic hunters’ lodge in Kaiserslautern. Sir Josselin de Poitiers had been traveling in the same direction they were, though he was not yet certain of his final destination, only that he was searching for Prince Alexander, once of Paris.
“Why ever would you do that?” the Countess inquired. “He’s pretty enough, but certainly not pleasant—not that anyone expects a deposed prince, especially one of such age, to be pleasant—but there’s a touch of madness about him, make no mistake. Even Prince Sigurd—he was our prince at that time, may God rest his soul—noticed it, and limited his hospitality to the traditional three nights.”
Sir Josselin shook his head. “You misunderstand me, my lady,” he said. “It is not his highness that I truly seek—I seek my sister-in-blood, the Lady Rosamund of Islington, whom I believe to be in his company.”
“Ah,” Thérèse nodded. “Yes, she is. Was, at least, when I saw her, after she was presented to Prince Sigurd in court.”
“So you saw her? How was she?" Sir Josselin asked, eagerly. "I’ve heard only rumors. I dared not stop in Paris, once I heard she was exiled along with Alexander, for I doubt Sir Geoffrey—Prince Geoffrey now, I should say—was likely to answer my inquiries.”
“Alas, she seemed rather sad, like a flower kept too long in a vase—though she would not tell me why. I rather suspect it was the company—it is never a good thing to be traveling with a madman.”
“I cannot imagine she wanted to go with him,” the knight replied. “But she was given no choice, either by Prince Geoffrey or Queen Salianna. Nor, apparently, by Alexander himself. Our sire, Queen Isouda de Blaise, sent me to attempt her rescue, and if I succeed, to escort her home again.”
Francesco, who was sitting at the same table, and listening to this conversation, put in: “And if Prince Alexander objects, which from all I understand of his character, he is very likely to do—what then?”
“My Queen’s instructions were clear; I am to find the Lady Rosamund, and if he will not release her, then I am to do whatever I can to stay by her side, in case she needs me.”
“How truly chivalrous,” Thérèse exclaimed in delight, “to declare yourself on a quest like that! 'Tis truly a noble endeavor, my lord. I approve—but do you know where will you go from here?”
“I am bound for Heidelberg next, since I have learned that is the direction they went; the Lady Julia Antasia apparently has forbidden Alexander to even cross into her domains.”
“Heidelberg,” Francesco pointed out, “is not a Ventrue court. Nor is it Toreador. Its prince is Tzimisce.”
“I am not familiar with that clan…” Josselin admitted. “At least, not yet.”
“Nor are we, really,” Thérèse said, “but our bodyguard is Tzimisce, and as it happens, he also is familiar with Heidelberg’s court, and its prince—”
“I would be grateful for an introduction to him, then.” Josselin said.
“I would be delighted to introduce you.” Thérèse smiled broadly, and indeed, she did.
What Jovan Ruthven told him, Francesco never learned, but when they parted ways the following evening, Sir Josselin took the road east to Heidelberg at least forewarned of what he faced there.
The Saarbrüchen envoys bid him farewell, and then turned north, to Frankfort.