Revenge of the Rose by Nicole Galland Page A

smiled.
    Willem was neither bug-eyed nor smiling, but his lips were pressed taut together. The distracting enormity and opulence of his surroundings vanished from his mind; he was staring hard at the count.
    For all his height, Alphonse of Burgundy had to look up slightly at Willem. “God in heaven, son, you’ve grown up to a strapping fine young man,” he said heartily. Perhaps a little too heartily.
    “Thank you, milord,” said Willem, expressionless.
    “I’m glad you’ve turned out well. I shall remember to summon you to the Oricourt garrison. I tend to forget about the little knights on the borders, please forgive me.” His eyes flickered beyond Willem, and his face lit up with genuine relief. “And is this not Erec of Tavaux, my newest-risen vassal!” Alphonse brushed past Willem and warmly embraced Erec; Erec, even more dazed than Willem by their remarkable surroundings, hardly registered who was speaking to him. “But why are you costumed like a squire?” the count chitchatted nervously, ushering Erec away.
    Once the two were out of earshot, there was an awkward pause. Marcus smoothed the trim on his blackberry-colored tunic.
    “You know each other,” he commented, gratuitously.
    “As you say, I am his vassal,” said Willem in a neutral tone. His slight accent was identical to Imogen’s— Burgundian— and it hurt Marcus’s heart to hear it in another voice. A shadow passed across Willem’s face briefly and he asked, “I know the count is His Majesty’s uncle, but is he in fact an intimate?”
    “That depends on who is speaking,” Marcus answered. “He would say he is.”
    “What would you say?”
    “I would say he is my future father-in-law and politely decline to comment on the issue.” He felt an adolescent thrill, stating it to an outsider; he wondered if Willem was aware of his lowly lineage and would challenge him for making such a claim.
    But Willem just looked thoughtful for a moment. “I do not know his daughter but I trust she is…a lady of her own merits,” he said respectfully.
    “As different as Gabriel from Lucifer. Her mother the countess is a goodly soul, that must account for it.” And in a lower voice, “I assume your dealings with him did not leave a pleasant taste in your mouth?”
    Willem released a blow of breath that was a disparaging laugh, but then stopped himself. Jouglet had insisted he not make alliances too early. He glanced after the count, who had already released Erec and was making his way toward the high table before the fire.
    “It was a long time ago,” Willem said to Marcus. “It makes little difference now.” Thinking of Jouglet he glanced around the room and noticed for the first time how bright it was, much brighter than his little wooden hall at home— there were more windows, more chandeliers, and the walls were limed and painted with bright colors, preponderantly gold. He’d never seen gold paint before.
    Before he could locate his friend, Marcus took his arm. “So,” the steward announced. “To the master.” The trestles were set up running on either side of the hall, but no cloths as yet covered the boards as Marcus led Willem toward the most ornate chair in the room, canopied with gold and scarlet, in the middle of a dais.
    Seated there, at the high table, was a man who only vaguely resembled the images stamped in coins or sealed in wax, but there could be no doubt who this was. A large man of middle years with pale eyes and reddish blond hair, hefting a sleek hooded falcon on his leather-wrapped wrist, he was dressed in brilliant scarlet silks and velvets— dressed more magnificently than anyone Willem had ever seen, with a gold circlet literally glittering with gemstones—
    “That’s the emperor!” Willem said in a voice checked with excited awe. Marcus looked at his astonished face and smiled despite himself. So the much-heralded Willem of Dole was a pup. Marcus found his artlessness endearing.
    “Yes, His Majesty, and on