The Black Swan (8 page)

She gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth in an involuntary gesture that betrayed her even as she had betrayed her husband.

“Did you think your sin would never be found out?” he continued, and laughed shortly. “You are not the first woman to betray a man; you are here among your sisters in sin for punishment, Katerina. Your punishment is to live as you have for the past months, never seeing another man except in a shape that will inspire no desire except the desire to slay you!”

She stepped back involuntarily, and he laughed at her, mockingly.

She wasn't entirely without courage, this Katerina. “How—” she faltered, “How long? How long will you hold me ensorcelled?”

He raised a single eyebrow. “Until you die, woman. And you should be grateful that you are given such an opportunity to repent. I would advise you to take advantage of it, and avoid the eternal damnation of your soul.” His lips formed a chill smile. “And you might pray for others of your sisters in sin who have been given no such blessed opportunities but persist in their delusions and passions until it is too late to repent.”

Katerina made an abortive gesture, as if to beg him for mercy. “Who are you?” she whimpered. “Why are you doing this?”

But it was Odette who stepped forward and drew the young woman back when she would have flung herself at von Rothbart's feet to grovel and beg. “Do not hope for mercy from this sorcerer, for he has no heart to feel such emotions,” she said as coldly as von Rothbart himself.

Von Rothbart's expression did not change in the least. “The better to avoid the temptation of faithless women,” he replied, with a mocking bow. “How else could I be a proper guardian for such as you? It would have been better for Adam had he been created without a heart; he would never have given in to the entreaties of Eve. But it was not only to remind you of your proper punishment that I gathered you this evening.”

Odette drew herself up proudly, and stepped forward with her arms spread slightly, as if to protect the maidens behind her.
She
knew what von Rothbart meant, and so did Odile. “If you expect us to repent, why is it that you pledge to hold us until death?” she demanded. “What reason would we have for anything but mourning for what is lost and railing against you? Even God does not demand punishment beyond repentance!”

Von Rothbart eyed her with speculation; Odile was taken aback. She had not expected such a spirited retort from Odette, who seemed to have lost interest in everything of late. Perhaps she had not been sulking on her little island, but thinking.

“An interesting line of reasoning, if entirely feminine,” he said at last, and watched her keenly. “Very well, Swan Queen; are you willing to hazard all on your repentance and redemption? For your flock as well as yourself?”

Odette looked suspicious. “I trust no wager of yours, sorcerer.”

He made a motion to dismiss her insult. “Listen, before you bandy words about. The spell that holds you all is linked to you, the leader. If
you
can capture the faith of a man who knows you as you are, and hold him as well, then the spell upon you all will be broken and you will all be free.” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of generosity. “That, by the by, has always been the case. But he must be utterly true to you, and swear to no other.”

“Dare you to swear to the truth of this, Baron von Rothbart?” Odette cried, eyes blazing. “Nay, do not swear upon the word of God, for I do not trust such an oath from you. Swear it upon your name, your power!”

“I swear that it is true, upon my name and power,” he said, almost benignly. “He must know what you are, and what you have done to deserve your state, and still remain faithful to you through any temptation.”

“And how long must this blessed condition hold before the spell is broken?” she replied, with no trust in her voice. “A year? Ten? A hundred?”

“You wrong me, Odette,” von Rothbart retorted. “I am stung! I impose no such impossible conditions. One month, from full moon to full moon, that is all. One tiny month, and you win the freedom of not only yourself, but of all your flock. And tomorrow, when we seek a change of scene, you will even have opportunity for your quest.”

Odette stepped back, silent, too suspicious to be anything but alarmed, though the buzz of conversation among her fellows was a mixture of alarm and excitement.

Odile's reaction, however, was of excitement unmixed with any tinge of alarm. It had been a very long time since the last hunt that von Rothbart had undergone where he had brought the flock with him. And if the flock came, so would Odile.

“Tomorrow we fly, Queen of the Swans,” Von Rothbart told her, still with a touch of mockery in his voice. “So when the sun sets, be prepared.”

W
OLFGANG, Siegfried's tutor, had a private chamber of his very own by virtue of his importance to the royal family. This was where Siegfried and one or more of his friends often gathered after dinner. Wolfgang had access to the palace wine cellars, and no one ever questioned how many bottles he and his young friends consumed, where anyone but Siegfried would have found the servants reluctant to fetch more than three bottles in a night. Siegfried preferred not to be in his own quarters following dinner. It was too easy for people to find him there.

Tonight, though, only three shared the room—clearly that of a bachelor scholar. Furniture was shabby but comfortable, royal cast offs appropriated by Wolfgang's servant. The huge, canopied bed, fully large enough for a family, was loaded with books and manuscripts except for just enough room for a single person to sleep, and candles jammed into the melted remains of countless predecessors adorned the head-board. Old cushions rubbed bare of nap or with mouse holes chewed in the corners were piled out of the way; these served as seats when there were more visitors than two. Threadbare hangings and curtains kept the chill of the stone walls at bay, all of them banished from the royal chambers years ago when their patterns faded into oblivion or were damaged by moths. For the rest of the furniture: Wolfgang had a desk with one broken leg, held steady by a broken stone column he had found in a ruin; a chair so monumentally ugly that the queen had ordered it burned; a bench padded with an ancient featherbed; and an assortment of stools in various states of repair.

Tonight Benno, clad in a sumptuously embroidered linen doublet of rich blue left open at the throat to show his lace-trimmed cambric shirt, sprawled at his ease on the bench. Siegfried's tutor Wolfgang, in his usual rusty black, rested an elbow on the arm of the chair he occupied next to the cold fireplace. Siegfried, attired more casually in a fine lawn shirt and brown leather trews had appropriated Wolfgang's bed; he, too, sprawled comfortably propped up on a pile of cushions, wineglass in one hand as he listened to Benno and Wolfgang continue the debate that had begun well over an hour ago. A sultry breeze coming in at the window, heavy with the scent of roses, made him feel indolent and lazy.

He listened in a pleasantly detached frame of mind, drunk enough so that his vague dissatisfaction with life had receded into a mellow haze.

Wolfgang and Benno had consumed their share of wine, so at least the debate was on an equal footing. For the moment, Siegfried preferred to listen; Wolfgang was a good talker, and wine freed Benno from the diffidence he otherwise showed for the old man's level of knowledge.

Wolfgang's learning wasn't much help in this case though, and he shook his gray head. “I am confused; more than confused with all of this,” he said. “I think that you have me at a disadvantage. Start at the beginning; explain this new fashion of love to me. You say it has rules? How can an emotion be governed by rules?”

Benno, who had been fostered in a French court, was only too ready to impart his knowledge. “The complete knight must have a lady to whom he is devoted. For her honor and glory he fights, it is to her beauty he composes and performs songs, she is the first thing he thinks of on arising and the last on sleeping.”

“And this woman is not his wife?” Wolfgang said, puzzled.

“No—love has nothing to do with marriage,” Benno replied with authority. “Marriage is about property, lineage, continuing the family line. Love doesn't enter into it—oh, Wolfgang, think! Look at Dorian; he's going to be married to a woman with a face like a cow and a body like a sack of turnips, and how could he be expected to feel anything for her? Marriage is a contract, much like the contract of liege to lord. One needn't love one's lord in order to fulfill that contract. One needn't love one's wife to fulfill the contract of marriage—which is to impart to her the use of one's goods, one's name, one's property, in exchange for children and service.”

“Well enough, I can see that,” Wolfgang agreed. “That was the same sort of contract that the Greeks and Romans recognized. Indeed, the ancient philosophers say very little about love for one's
wife.
”

Benno shrugged. “In fact—well, it's generally considered rather common and ill-bred to be in love with your wife.”

“And the woman you love isn't your leman either—you don't necessarily lie with her.” That was Siegfried's contribution. He felt very sorry for Wolfgang; all the logic in the world wasn't going to make sense of the rules of courtly love—but it wasn't about logic, it was about the heart, after all, which knew no logic.

“No—well, sometimes you might have her carnally, if she's nobly born, but it's best if she isn't actually your leman. God's breath, Wolfgang, how could anyone make songs to the beauty of a little peasant girl's hands? If you've got a serf girl or three tucked away, that's all very well, but you don't elevate her to
lover.
That would be sordid, demeaning.” Benno sounded very sure of himself.

“Sordid for you, or her?” Wolfgang muttered under his breath. Then he raised his voice. “All right, then, couldn't your lover be a maiden you aspire to?”

Benno shook his head. “Well, she can, but it's better if she's already married if you're going to lie with her—and really, it's better even if you aren't going to lie with her. You don't want to ruin a maiden's honor with your attentions.”

Wolfgang sat straight up. “You mean to tell me that the fashionable thing is to make love to another man's wife?” he yelped, actually shocked.

This from the man who has translated the poems of Sappho?
Siegfried thought.

“You still don't understand,” Benno complained. “You're not supposed to
make love
to her, you're supposed to adore her from afar, do everything for her. This is Courtly Love, Wolfgang. It hasn't anything to do with lust, or marriage, it's supposed to be utterly pure and above all that. It's supposed to be all-consuming, overpowering, like Lancelot, or Tristan—”

“Lancelot bedded Guinevere, and Tristan ran off with Isolde,” Wolfgang pointed out with complete truth. “That sounds like making love to another man's wife to me.”

“Well, Lancelot and Tristan failed to reach the ideal, and that was why they came to tragic ends,” Benno explained earnestly. “They weren't
supposed
to let lust get into it, you see? When Courtly Love is pure, it's perfect, and you don't get into situations like that. Don't you see how liberating and glorious it is? You don't
have
to be in love with that doughball you're wedded to, and you don't have to be in love with the pretty peasant you're futtering in the barn. Love gives another person power over you—being in love with your wife could be trouble, because she could rule you, and being in love with your leman is degrading—how could gentleman and a knight allow a peasant to have power over him? The proper person to give that power to is the kind of person who's either your equal or your superior, don't you see? That's why you love a lady above your stature, and preferably a married one with a husband who's conveniently on pilgrimage, or at least disinclined to take exception to your attention.”

Wolfgang took a long pull off his wineglass and sighed. “There's no logic to this!” he complained plaintively.

Siegfried decided to put his own bit in. “It's not supposed to be logical, Wolfgang, and the rules aren't logical, either. It's an escape from logic, I suppose.”

“Exactly!” Benno beamed on his friend. “Exactly! We have to be logical in our marriages, and although politics is very far from logical, you still can't give free vent to your emotions when you deal with political matters. Courtly Love allows us to give our hearts freedom without compromising our duty or our honor.”

“Unless you have the poor taste to follow Lancelot's example,” Siegfried snickered. “Bad luck for you, then.”

“You're not supposed to follow Lancelot's example,” Benno countered, flushing.

“Well, what are the women supposed to do?” Wolfgang persisted. “Collect young knights like so many pretty baubles?”

Benno sputtered at that, but Siegfried, who didn't take the rules of this newly-fashionable Courtly Love so seriously, nodded agreement. “More or less, the beautiful ones, anyway. It isn't done to be in love with your husband, but then, most beauties have been shackled to a drooling old man anyway, so there's no fear of being in love with someone like that. If you're a beauty, I gather the idea is to inspire as many handsome fellows as possible to be in love with you. You're supposed to be gracious, kind, accomplished, and learned, so you can properly appreciate all the songs that are made for you, you can hold your own in conversation, and you can understand the privilege of having someone fighting in tournaments in your honor. But you're also supposed to be distant, a little cool, so that you don't encourage them to do something stupid—like Lancelot.”