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Chapter One
Idyll
[a poem or short prose in a bucolic setting]
16 June
Jouglet the minstrel and Lienor were flirting again as they waited for Willem on the steps in the small courtyard. Lienor's green linen tunic was laced tighter in the back than her mother would have liked, but Jouglet and Lienor each seemed quite pleased with the effect.
"I'm astonished Willem said yes to this," said Lienor, who was possibly the most beautiful woman in the county of Burgundy, and knew it, but was not much bothered by it. With a grateful smile, she added, "It's only for your sake, Jouglet. My brother never lets me do anything."
"He is concerned only for your safety, milady," the minstrel answered neutrally. "Think of all the scrawny itinerant musicians who would prick your honor, given the chance."
Lienor fidgeted with her wreath of rosebuds. "He's overcautious. I would have more freedom in the cellar of an abbey."
"Come now, milady," Jouglet cooed. "He is a man of great indulgence. I offer my own friendship with him as proof."
Lienor rolled her eyes and sighed dismissively. "It's different for you, you're a man." Her eyes ran over the lean young body and she added, giggling, "Well . . . very nearly."
Boyish Jouglet, although used to such jabs, looked affronted nonetheless. "What does milady mean, very nearly? Must I prove myself yet again? I beg the lady to assign me a task only a great hero could achieve, and I'll demonstrate that I am worthy of your feminine regard." But they smiled at each other; this was an old game between them.
"Very well, you lowly knight errant," Lienor recited, feigning disdain. She gestured grandly toward the manor gate. "Travel the earth for ten years and bring me back . . ." She glanced at her pale hands a moment. "Bring me back a magic ring that will make me queen of all I survey."
"Your happiness is my Holy Grail, milady," Jouglet announced, with an absurd level of gravity, and bowed deeply.
"Is it?" Lienor scolded. "I have been waiting three years already, you might at least have slain a dragon for me by now. But I am so gracious and undemanding, I shall be content with a magic ring."
"It is as good as done, milady. And when I return I hope I shall be granted the honor of resting upon your delicate pink bosom."
"My bosom is white," Lienor said, mock-petulant.
Jouglet grinned wickedly. "Not once I get through with it."
Lienor giggled; her mother, Maria, standing watchfully a few paces away, clicked her tongue disapprovingly but said nothing. Maria had come, over the course of three years of Jouglet's unannounced visits, to trust the fiddler with almost unimpeded access to the entire household; even if Jouglet could have claimed the brute masculine strengths that might endanger a young lady's purity—and Jouglet couldn't—Lienor would have been impervious.
Willem stepped out of the musty shade of the stable. He squinted in the bright light, a hooded falcon tethered on his wrist. Willem was a handsome man, his gentle demeanor belied by the crooked nose that was evidence of too many fights. He saw his sister and their guest at their usual banter and smiled despite himself. Their behavior was appalling, but he was too fond of each of them to chastise effectively. Although the musician made it this far west infrequently, there was no one outside his family to whom Willem felt so close. In a world where he had learned he could trust almost nobody, he trusted Jouglet, intuitively and entirely.
Willem was followed out of the stable by the groom, who led three saddled horses. Together they passed a wooden tub of soaking walnuts, the rabbit-tortured herb garden, and the little wooden chapel, before stopping in front of the hall steps.
At the top of the steps, Lienor clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, this will be such a treat! And such a change in our domestic philosophy," she added, pointedly. "Surely you've noticed, Willem prefers that I am not the hunter but the prey—of rich men in search of a mate."
Jouglet loomed over her and crooned suggestively, in a husky tenor voice, "Do you blame the rich men? If I were a rich man, I'd try to mate you."
Lienor looked delighted by the declaration; Willem said, "Behave yourself, fellow," but only because he knew he ought to.
"Yes, you'll never be able to marry me off if word gets around that I've been cozying up to some migrant musician," said Lienor, smiling. She and Jouglet descended the steps together, white hand resting on tanned one.
"I'm only trying to help, friend," Jouglet assured Willem. "I've been trained to cozy up at the highest courts in Europe. How do you expect her to learn feminine wiles if she never has a wooer to practice flirting with?"
"Wooers are one thing she needs fear no lack of," Willem said with a patient smile. "It's the sort of wooers we get that are the problem."
"Anyhow it surely doesn't count as flirting when the wooer's voice has hardly changed," Lienor teased.
Before Jouglet could protest, Willem said, "Careful, Lienor, I asked him the other week over chess whether he might be a eunuch and he nearly gave me a bloody nose."
"And then you gave me a black eye," Jouglet reminded him, sounding inexplicably delighted.
"And then you gave me a kneeing I should have hanged you for."
"Well, at least we know you're not a eunuch," Jouglet pointed out, slapping Willem on the shoulder.
The falcon made a mewling sound, sensing Jouglet's nearness; the musician drew away. With a sweetly coquettish attitude, Lienor took her horse's tasseled reins from the groom. "Jouglet, have you hunted before? You seem to be scared of falcons. How amusing."
"Lienor, don't be rude," said Willem.
Revenge of the Rose. Copyright © by Nicole Galland. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Revenge of the Rose by Nicole Galland
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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