The Black Swan (11 page)

His horse, at least, had been perfectly well satisfied with the browsing she'd gotten, and she picked up her feet neatly as he returned the way he had come.
I am not going back to the palace yet,
he thought, stubbornly, as he left the green shade of the woods and trotted out onto the dusty road again.
If nothing else, I am going to have a good sausage and some well-brewed beer.
By now his breakfast had worn off. If he couldn't satisfy one appetite, well, he could at least take care of another.

By the time he reached the inn, many of the local craftsmen and merchants had gathered there for their own meals and a chance to catch up on gossip. As soon as Siegfried dismounted, of course, the innkeeper hurried over to wait on him personally, and a pair of portly burghers were only too pleased to give up their little table under the trees to him. Or if they were not pleased, they took care not to show it.

But Siegfried was well-liked in the village, and he persuaded them to share the table with him. It didn't take a great deal of persuading; there was an unspoken understanding that if their prince invited them to be a little less than formal with him, they need not fear his offended pride. But the invitation had to come from
him
; that, too, was understood.

In a very short time, Siegfried had a plate of excellent sausage and sauerkraut in front of him—a dish his mother would have regarded with horror, had it been placed in front of her—and a stein of exceptional beer to wash it down. He stayed silent, listening to the gossip of the village, and marveling at how very like it was to the gossip of the palace.
It's a cruder copy of our intrigues,
he decided, his good humor restored.
Just like they try to copy our dress. We must be like a marvelous play to them.

Although he could while away as much time here as he wished, the rest of the inn's patrons had work to do, and sooner than he would have liked, Siegfried was left alone at his wooden table under the oaks planted in front of the inn. He pondered his empty stein glumly, and was just about to feel sorry for himself, when a comely hand bearing a pitcher refilled the tankard for him.

He let his gaze travel from the hand, to the plump, round arm; from the arm, to the rest of his benefactress.

“Your glass was empty, sire,” the woman said, with a little flirt of her rust-colored linen skirts as she stepped back. The prince allowed his gaze to linger, but her only reaction was a broadening of her smile.

“I haven't seen
you
here before,” Siegfried replied as he noted the neat figure in the tightly laced bodice and chemise, her breasts displayed by the low chemise in a most satisfactory fashion, a plain apron tied tightly about her waist to emphasize how small it was.

“That's because you haven't
been
here for quite some time—sire.” She dipped a mocking curtsy. “I came up from the country to work for Fritz this spring. I'd planned to leave after the haying and harvest—make my way to a city—”

He might have been mistaken about the gypsy, but there was no mistaking the promises in
her
tone and posture.

“Dare I think you could be persuaded to stay?” he asked, his tone as mocking—and as promising—as hers. He liked what he saw: a fine, experienced figure of a woman, who knew what she wanted and what was expected of her. Handsome, not pretty, and with just enough audacity to be intriguing.

And Fritz had no problem with freeing his girls for other duties.
He almost smiled at that. The old panderer knew his tastes—the innkeeper had probably hired this wench on, knowing that Siegfried would see her sooner or later, and expecting a handsome reward out of it!

The woman pretended to consider his words. “I could be persuaded—if I thought there was a good place in it for me,” she replied boldly. “I'd rather serve tables at the palace than work in the fields at harvest.”

It was his turn to pretend to consider what she had said. “They're very particular at the palace about their servers,” he told her, with mock seriousness. “I'm not sure you'd suit. . . .”

She leaned over the table, giving him a good, long look down her chemise. “Would the prince care to try me to see if I'd . . . suit? I'm sure Fritz will grant us a chamber for the interview. He is a very accommodating master.”

His hose became uncomfortably binding, but her attitude was so audacious that he nearly laughed out loud. “I believe that would be a good idea,” he replied.

She turned with surprising grace and another little flirt of her skirts to display neat ankles and calves, and sauntered toward the inn door. He threw down a coin that would cover the cost of a dozen meals like the one he'd just eaten, and followed.

She was already on the stair when he entered the common room, looking back to see if he'd follow. Her delighted chuckle when she saw him in the doorway was all the encouragement he needed.

He didn't get back to the palace until late that afternoon.

S
UNLIGHT streamed in through three broad windows let into the northern wall of the protected courtyard, windows left open in this warm weather. In the winter, thick and bubbly glass made in small, hand-sized panes set into a pivoting iron frame allowed nearly as much light in the workroom as the open windows did. There were better windows elsewhere in the palace; very few openings were protected only by shutters. This was inferior glass, but it served well enough for the workrooms such as this, the weaving room.

Eight looms stood here, all in use, each with a skilled woman hard at work at it. Queen Clothilde completed her examination of the weaving room with great satisfaction. It had been well worth the expense to have the two new looms built. Now they could provide their own woven tapestries, without having to import them at ruinous expense from Flanders or France, or make them the old way, by piecing and embroidering the designs. The embroiderers could turn their attention to making fine bands of trim for gowns, and larger designs on the breasts of palace livery. Best of all,
now
she could have her pages, heralds, and personal guards garbed in tabards bearing her arms, as she had heard that greater courts than hers displayed.

The queen's most skilled weavers sat at the two tapestry looms, carefully following a design pricked out on precious paper beside them, shuttles of precious colored wool threads heaped in baskets beside them. They worked slowly, an inch or two of tapestry woven in a day was good progress. They also had pride-of-place beside the windows, where the light was best. The other six looms clattered energetically beneath the hands of the weavers, three weaving woolen cloth, two linen, and one weaving very fine thread of plain linen in tight bands that would later serve as the ground for bands of embroidery. The more precious velvets, silks, and plush fabrics had to be purchased, but most of the fabric used by Clothilde's household was woven here. A suit of clothing was part of the yearly stipend of those servitors (including the landless knights and foot soldiers) who were hired rather than serfs, and even the serfs got a stipend of clothing in the form of old clothes handed down from the servants. Personal servants often received gifts of discarded clothing from their masters, after expensive embroideries and other ornamentation was removed, as well as stipend clothing, but that was not very often, as velvets and silks were so expensive they were turned, cut down, remade and used many times before they fell into the hands of servants. Whether “common” clothing was the elaborate livery of a herald or the simple chemise or smock of a kitchen servant, it was made here, in the palace, and mostly from the cloth woven in this very room.

A velvet loom will be next, I think,
Clothilde reflected.
I suspect we will be weaving mostly wool plush, but it will be worth it to have the ability to weave velvet when we have the thread. And now that
all
of my embroidery women can work on my page tabards, they should be finished before autumn.
It was the queen's ambition that her court, though small, be regarded as sophisticated as any in the land; clothing those servants that were highly visible in real livery demonstrated sophistication. A high level of sophistication implied a high level of prosperity and importance; it also implied wealth and the strength to defend that wealth.

She had far-reaching ambitions, plans that were nebulous shadows now, but if she had the freedom to act—who knew? If her little court attracted the attention of the Emperor, there could be state visits, invitations to the Imperial functions, and even (dare she think it?) the personal attentions of the widowed Emperor himself.

A page entered the weaving room, interrupting her reverie. He looked around for her, then hurried to her side. “Your Majesty, the minstrel Uwe has returned—and there is a nobleman with him,” the cherubic child said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide and ingenuous. “The nobleman would like an audience with you, that is, he respectfully requests an audience of you.”

Uwe—with a stranger?
That piqued her interest. She had sent him off on a mission to find appropriate candidates for Siegfried's bride—but what else had he found?

“Who is this nobleman?” she asked the boy, not quite ready to commit to an immediate meeting. She didn't want the stranger to have the impression that the Queen had so little to occupy her that she could give a stranger an immediate hearing—but on the other hand, she didn't want to offend a powerful man who might be of use to her.

“Baron von Rothbart, Majesty,” the boy replied. “Uwe said to tell you he has much to interest you regarding the errand you sent him on.”

Indeed?
That settled it. “I will see them in the Lesser Audience Chamber,” she told the boy. “Take your time in guiding them there, however.”

The page took her at her word, and left the room at a leisurely walk. Clothilde signaled to one of her maids to pick up the train of her gown and moved briskly to the room she had designated to the page, giving orders to the rest of the servants who accompanied her as she walked.

The Lesser Audience Chamber was just off the Great Hall, through which the visitor would be conducted in order to reach it, giving him an eyeful of Clothilde's improvements. He should be even more impressed when he reached the chamber itself; it was the “lesser” chamber only in terms of size, not of luxury and sumptuousness. The obvious fact that it was easier and less expensive to create the impression of wealth in a
small
room rather than a large one was often overlooked by visitors.

Meant to receive parties of four or less, the room had plastered walls for warmth, covered with floor-to-ceiling hangings so that not an inch of plaster showed. At the moment, only two of the walls had tapestries instead of the draping curtains of an arras; that would be remedied as the new looms produced more work. The only break was a single window, curtained in heavy wool; the curtains were pulled back, displaying the fact that the window was not only glazed, it had a picture in colored glass, just like the one in the chapel, but portraying a sun-in-glory surrounded by stars.

The throne, carved with all the considerable skill of a master joiner, had been overlaid with gold leaf last year, and cushioned in plush. Perhaps it was not of marble, but it was more comfortable, and impressive enough. Clothilde arranged herself in the throne with the help of her handmaiden; a servant summoned by another lady-in-waiting came hastily to learn her bidding, and she sent him off for wine and cakes for the visitor. The sideboard was already laid with a snowy linen cloth, with silver goblets enough waiting, and there were two chairs at the opposite side of the room should she choose to allow her visitor to seat himself in her presence.

The servant arrived just before the two men, and waited at the sideboard beneath the window as they appeared. Uwe preceded the stranger, fell immediately to one knee before Clothilde's throne, and made a deep bow to her, exciting a profound sense of pleasure in her at this sign of his servility. Minstrels were notoriously arrogant. That Uwe should abase himself spoke much for her power, and she knew that this stranger would be aware of that.

Uwe spoke in humble tones, without raising his eyes. “Your Majesty, with your gracious permission, I present to you Baron Eric von Rothbart, who desires to be a great friend to Your Majesty.”

“We are always pleased to encounter friends,” she said cautiously, then smiled on her minstrel. “You have our permission to rise, Uwe.”

As Uwe stood up, she turned her attention to the stranger. A large man, a
formidable
man; it was quite clear he was no stranger to combat. He had the broad shoulders and muscular chest of an experienced swordsman, though he wore not so much as a dagger at the moment, not even a dress sword. His red hair and beard betrayed where his family name,
von Rothbart,
had originated; his face displayed nothing but a pleasant half smile. His costume, however, betrayed a great deal; Clothilde had never seen a mere
baron
in such sumptous garb before. His cloak, curiously embroidered so that it resembled feathers laid over one another, was of rich brown velvet with a creamy satin lining. His gown—for as many mature men did, he wore a long gown, a houpellande, rather than a doublet—was of matching velvet, stitched at the hems with gold bullion in a pattern of owls perched among branches. His shirt, showing at the collar of the gown, could only be of that heavy, fine silk cloth known as samite, so precious that it was generally reserved for altar cloths; it, too, was embroidered in a subtle design in white silk. His pointed shoes in the latest fashion were of fine, gilded leather, soft enough to be made into gloves.

Around his neck he wore a heavy chain of red-gold, the links made in the shape of owls, with a great pendant of enameled gold hanging down on his chest. Strangely enough, given the owl theme of the rest of his garb, the pendant was in the shape of a white swan with a crown about her neck. There were even tiny jewels winking in the gold of the crown.