The Black Swan (9 page)

“And are women supposed to have a single distant—or maybe not-so-distant—love as well?” Wolfgang mocked. “After all, as the peasants say, sauce for the gander should serve for the goose.”

“Actually, I'm rather curious about that myself,” Siegfried admitted, turning to Benno. “You hadn't said anything about the women picking out someone particular.”

“Well—” Benno frowned. “Yes and no. One school of thought says that she should remain aloof from all that; another that she should secretly pick one of her admirers to fall in love with, but never allow him to know for certain that he is her chosen. That's the ideal, of course, but women have been known to take a carnal lover . . . the Church says that they're more fleshly and carnal than men, after all, so it's not surprising.”

“The Greek philosophers would say that since a woman's soul is so much simpler than a man's, what she feels could not be love as you are describing in any case,” Wolfgang replied ponderously. “The Romans would agree that woman's primary instincts are so primitive that they couldn't even imagine something as sophisticated as this Courtly Love—”

“Oh, hang your Greek and Roman philosophers!” Benno snapped, offended at Wolfgang's tone. “What could they have to say that was relevant here? They're old and dead, and when they were alive, they were as stuffy as an unaired closet!”

Wolfgang bridled, and sat straight up, his face going red with fury. Siegfried decided to put an end to the debate.

“Here now, none of that!” he ordered sharply. “Benno, you're drunk.”

“So are you!” Benno retorted. “And so is he!”

Siegfried laughed. “Yes, I am, but I know it, and I'm not picking quarrels. You are drunk and trying to pretend you're not—when you know you'll be very sorry for some of the things you said tomorrow. Apologize to Wolfgang. When you sober up, you'll be glad you did.”

Benno growled an apology, but had the grace to look embarrassed at his behavior.

Siegfried wasn't letting his tutor off, either. “As for you, my tutor, the Greek and Roman philosophers don't even agree with each other, so don't say things you know will prick Benno to snap at you,” the prince continued, getting a gratified glance from his friend. “Besides, the Greek philosophers say that women don't have souls, either, and what do you think the Church would have to say about that? Would you be suggesting that the Blessed Virgin didn't have a soul? I wouldn't do that if I were you, the priest already suspects that you're half pagan and all heretic. Your favorite philosophers aren't always right, so I wouldn't rely too heavily on them to win my arguments if I were you.”

That came out rather jumbled, but it seemed to make sense enough to Wolfgang, who in his turn graciously apologized to Benno, so that in a moment they were all friends again.

“Anyway,” Benno sighed, checking the bottle of wine under his bench to see if there was anything left in it, “It's all one to you, Siegfried. Courtly Love doesn't apply to you.”

“What do you mean?” Siegfried pushed a full bottle across the floor to him.

“I mean there isn't anyone for you to fall in love with, in that sense,” Benno explained earnestly. “You've got the highest rank here so there aren't any ladies superior to you except the queen, and you can't exactly fall in love with the Emperor's daughter, because he doesn't have one. So you don't have to go to all the trouble of finding a worthy object and all the rest.
And
you aren't likely to get married off to a lump of dough, either; you have your pick of the prettiest beauties, any one of whom would be deliriously happy to marry you. So you can be in love with a wife or a mistress or
both,
and you won't be breaking the rules of Courtly Love because they don't apply to you.”

“Ah!” Siegfried countered, raising his index finger wisely. “But I don't intend to, you see!”

“What? Fall in love, or marry?” Wolfgang asked.

“Both.” Siegfried smiled, having just come up with what seemed to be a perfect plan to him. “I'm certainly not going to fall in love, because I don't intend to wind up so besotted that a woman can order me about—I've had enough of that with my beloved mother, thank you very much. And I'm not going to marry, because I'm tired to death of fetters and restrictions. At least, I'm not going to marry
now,
” he amended. “I'm going to go right on tumbling the chambermaids and peasant wenches, then when I'm
very
old and all the maidens have been making doe eyes at me forever, I'll condescend to marry one. She can bear my sons, and then nurse me.” He laughed. “By then I'll be too old to run after pretty women, so it will be nice to have one that has to come to me.”

“And if she plays you Guinevere's trick,” Benno asked, not quite mocking him, “Then what will you do?”

“I shall magnanimously forgive her and send Lancelot packing to a monastery, probably singing soprano so he won't be tempted by the sin of lust again,” he replied, feeling too pleasantly fuddled to be annoyed. “She should be grateful at being forgiven and grateful that I didn't murder her lover, so she'll be even nicer to me. We don't have stupid laws about burning errant wives at the stake
here.
Or if we do, I'll take care to have them changed before I'm old.”

“A wise choice, O Solomon!” Wolfgang applauded. “I feel sure that the Greek philosophers would approve, even if the Romans wouldn't. The Romans were very stuffy about marital matters, anyway. Have another bottle of wine.”

“Thank you,” Siegfried said, bowing graciously to his tutor, and stretching out his arm to take the bottle Wolfgang held out unsteadily. “I believe I shall.”

As he took the bottle, he thought he heard a nasty, soft chuckle coming from the window, and when he glanced in that direction, he could have sworn he saw a shadow drop across it for a moment—but he reminded himself that he
was
drunk, and he'd seen and heard things before when he was in that dubious state that proved not to be there.

The next morning he woke without even a moderate headache, thanks to his foresight in taking a good walk around the battlements until his head cleared. Actually, the first part of it was more of a stagger than a walk, but he'd taken care to avoid the parts of the castle that were patrolled by sentries until he'd gotten his feet under him and could give at least a good imitation of sobriety, each time taking a good, long drink of water. He'd taken to doing this ever since the Captain of the Queen's Guards had given him the trick to avoiding morning misery altogether. Wolfgang and Benno had gone straight to bed—actually, he and Benno had lifted Wolfgang into
his
bed, then Benno had staggered off with another bottle tucked under his arm, so he could well imagine what
their
heads felt like this morning.

He pulled back the heavy linen bed curtains, and his servants, who had been waiting patiently just outside his bedchamber door for the first signs of life from the bed, sprang to their feet and bustled into the chamber with entirely too much energy. He climbed out of bed—literally, for the bed was so tall that it had its own set of steps—and the servants swarmed all over him.

So the day began in the usual way, with servants presenting garments for his approval while he stood there in his singlet and hose making up his mind. He rejected the first few garments they offered him, finally approving a leather doublet, silk shirt, and moleskin trews; clothing that would do for paying court to the queen
or
going out riding. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted to do today, but it was as sure as there were angels in heaven that neither Benno nor Wolfgang would be fit company until late afternoon, if then.

I could always have one of the girls sent up. . . .
The thought stirred neither his heart nor his loins, the sign that told him that he'd gotten bored with all three of them. It always happened, sooner or later; these three had hung on several months longer than anyone had expected, including, probably the women themselves.

Bother. I've been bedding them out of habit more than anything.
He sighed, for he knew very well that nothing any of them did was interesting or exciting anymore, and not a single one of the three had gotten with child, which would have given him the excuse to pension her off and replace her.
I need something . . . different. A new woman. Or women. Make a clean sweep and start with a new lot.

Now that thought sparked interest, and he wondered if his current state of ennui had anything to do with the boredom he felt with his women.
Definitely,
he decided.
It's time to pension them all off and go hunting.
And with that decision came a lifting of spirits that he hadn't felt in weeks.

“Arno, stop fussing with those point-laces, they'll do,” he said snappishly to his manservant, a fellow who had been with him for as long as he'd
had
personal servants. “The rest of you can go. I'm not my mother that I need three people to comb out my hair.”

The other three servants fled, leaving Siegfried alone with Arno, who chuckled at his ill temper. The older man began picking up the discarded garments and restoring them to chests and wardrobes, waiting for Siegfried's next orders.

“Arno, I want you to pension off the girls; tell them I won't want their company anymore,” Siegfried said abruptly as soon as the other servants were out of earshot.

Arno chuckled again; long service with Siegfried gave him a certain amount of freedom. “So the rooster tires of old hen and is going looking for spring chicken, hmm? Or were you minded to join the Church and have decided to try a life of virtue?” His sly expression showed just how likely he thought
that
was.

“No vestments for me, old man,” Siegfried replied, his temper already improving. “And the quarry I plan to chase today has two legs, not four, if you're curious. Which you are.”

“Very good, sire,” Arno said with satisfaction. “I'll have things tidied up for you by suppertime.”

Siegfried left his rooms and descended the ancient stone stair with a sense of relief as well as anticipation.
Trust Arno; I'll never have to deal with them again.
One thing he'd never been able to manage was telling a girl that he'd lost interest in her—she would always start to weep or rail at him, and he couldn't cope with either reaction. Arno, however, was blithely immune to either ranting or tears, and as a third party, could afford to be indifferent. Of course, if any of Siegfried's current girls had been of higher rank than a manservant to the prince, Siegfried would have had to get someone else to bear the bad news, Benno or Wolfgang for instance—but one was a chambermaid, one was a dairy maid, and one worked in the kitchen, so there was no problem. Arno knew to a groat the size of the appropriate gift for any girl being cast off, and he also knew that Siegfried would want to be generous. With a purse the size Siegfried would give them, they could expect to dower themselves into a good marriage with no questions asked on the part of the husband-to-be. If they made no fuss at all and departed graciously, there would be a fine wedding gift coming, and an equally generous christening gift for the first son. So the girls really had nothing to complain about, once their terms in Siegfried's bed were at an end; a servant's maidenhead (assuming she had one) wasn't worth much unless a noble desired to take it, and a serf's was worth rather less than that.

Anyway, it was all now in Arno's capable hands, and Siegfried wouldn't even have to see them except at a distance. Now he could devote himself to the hunt without a second thought.

He entered through the side door of the Lesser Hall to find most of the castle populace still breaking their fast. The queen, of course, was nowhere to be seen, nor were her ladies-in-waiting; they ate quietly and decorously in the queen's chambers, leaving the Lesser Hall to the men and the noblewomen of lesser rank. Siegfried took his seat at the empty High Table and waited for a page to bring him food and drink while he surveyed the lower tables with an eye to a new conquest.

He had a policy of not taking a new girl from the same class and rank as the old, which meant that the kitchen, the dairy, and the domestic servants were out of consideration. There were serving wenches, however—

Wait a moment—who's that sitting next to Hans the Black? Too old to be a daughter, surely—
The couple in question sat among the unlanded knights; freedmen, but only a single step in rank above common trades-men, men who usually owned nothing more than the clothing on their backs, their horse, and their armor and weapons. These were men who moved from court to court, either fighting in tourneys for the prize money, or serving one of the landed gentry in hopes of doing something to earn a small parcel of land and serfs of their own. It wasn't unusual to see a woman at that table, for men who had settled into the garrison often took mistresses from among the servants, or even wives from others of their rank, but Siegfried thought he knew most of them.
She can't be his wife; he's not married; he'd have come to me for permission if he'd decided to
get
married. Sister or some other kin?
The young woman was doll-like in her prettiness, with sweet blue eyes, cheeks that had never felt the touch of the sun or a harsh wind, and golden hair peeking out from under her coif. She wasn't dressed in the homespun of a servant, so she wasn't a mistress. Her gown was of good quality wool, but plain and a touch threadbare. So, if not a clandestine wife, she was a poor relation to Sir Hans, which meant that if she welcomed Siegfried's embrace, she'd be grateful for some fine presents of fabric and jewels. He wouldn't interfere with another man's wife, but anything else was fair game. Hans was of low enough rank that he wouldn't dare protest if Siegfried took his sister, so long as it was with the woman's consent.