by Dave Duncan
“The barbican will collapse, the Wends will storm the breach over the rubble, and Gallant will be overrun.”
“It is not quite hopeless,” Kavarskas said. “They can only come by the Silver Road. They can move their Dragon by boat to the end of the lake, at Long Valley. The Ruzena rises there, but is not navigable, so from there the gun must be drawn by oxcart. There are half a dozen places where we may be able to block them if we move fast enough.”
“Then why don’t you?” Madlenka demanded. Why waste time just talking?
“I certainly shall, now that I have heard His Lordship’s news,” Kavarskas replied in a tone normally used only to address tiresome infants. “But the Wends know all this as well as we do. They may have scouts very close to us already, watching the road.”
“You have an outpost at Long Valley, don’t you? To watch the road?”
He rapped the wall beside him with his hook to indicate impatience. “And so far the patrols have ridden out and back undisturbed. But the Long Valley post could be bypassed. If I were the Wend leader, I would already have moved a sizable force around the outpost and brought it close enough to keep a watch on the gorge. If the defenders sent out a force larger than the usual patrol-a force large enough to start demolishing bridges, for instance-then I would ambush it and destroy it. We lack the manpower to afford suicide missions, my lady. They must outnumber us twenty to one.”
He grew louder. “These are not our grandfathers’ days! We can no longer skulk behind the walls as they did, waiting until the enemy starves and goes away. If the Pomeranians invade, we shall need an active defense, with frequent sorties against their gun emplacement. But we will take monstrous losses if we charge along the road into their volleys, and Captain Ekkehardt and I between us have less than a thousand men.”
“You have guns!” the seneschal protested. “Captain Ekkehardt’s contract requires him to supply fifty armed arquebusiers.”
“Those I have,” the landsknecht said, “armed and well trained. But personal firearms cannot throw a ball as far as a cannon can. The Wends can emplace their bombard far outside our range.”
“And arquebuses are very slow to load,” the constable added. “An archer can get off several bolts in the time an arquebusier needs to fire one ball. That suffices if you are firing from fortifications, but is close to useless in the field.”
This was all so wrong! Madlenka and the seneschal should not be here at a council of war. It should be her father or Petr listening to the arguments and making decisions based on experience and training. These men did not care a spit for her opinions or her military judgment, and neither did she. Some vital words had not yet been spoken. She wanted to know the real reason she was here.
“Da!” Leonas shouted in his slurred voice. “Why does this horse got horns?” He was examining one of the tapestries.
“I’ll tell you later,” Vranov shouted back. “Now be quiet!”
“How soon can we expect aid from the king?” Bishop Ugne asked calmly.
The constable banged the wall angrily with his hook. “Weeks or months! He cannot yet have received my report of the count’s death. Count Vranov’s news about the Pomeranians will arrive a few days later. In another fortnight we may receive a note telling us that His Majesty expects us to fight to the last man. To muster the army, with all the food, equipment, and fodder it will need, will take months. Then it must march across moors, through forests, zigzag from ford to ford… When it eventually meets the Pomeranians, they may well be closer to Mauvnik than to Cardice.”
And by then Castle Gallant would be only a memory. Fortresses that refused to surrender were sacked. The conventions of war allowed the successful besiegers three days of unlimited rape, murder, pillage, and atrocity.
The bishop cleared his throat. “We appreciate your coming in person to warn us, Havel. It is time you told us your terms.”
Terms? But of course there would be terms.
Vranov looked up with a smile like a child caught stealing a cookie. “I offer an alliance. I can spare a hundred horses and a thousand men now, and twice that many as soon as I am sure that Wartislaw is not just feinting at Cardice to conceal a move on Pelrelm. I can also lend you a single cannon. It is nothing like his monster bombard, but if you can emplace your gun first, he will have to work much harder. I will supply a master gunner, fifty balls, and enough powder for them. If you can delay the Wends until the flux breaks out in their camp, or until winter strikes, or until King Konrad can bring up his army behind you, then you will have won. At least this time you will have won.”
“And why are you doing this, my lord?” Kavarskas inquired.
“Because you are my first line of defense. I hate the Wends and they hate me. If they force the Silver Road and occupy northern Jorgary, they can squeeze Pelrelm from both sides.”
Never mind Pelrelm! What of Castle Gallant? At best it would be besieged, meaning famine and suffering. No wonder Seneschal Jurbarkas was worried.
“But there is more,” said Bishop Ugne at Madlenka’s shoulder. “You want more than that.”
The count nodded, watching the seneschal, not looking up at the bishop standing over him. “Cardice provides board for my men, of course. And their women, if they bring them. Those are worthwhile extras for you, to make the men fight. Plus a thousand florins for the munitions and the rent of my gun and gunner. We can hammer out the details later.”
“Later is the time for action,” Ugne insisted. “Now is the time for talk.”
Madlenka had never had much respect for the bishop, but suddenly she was very grateful for his support. She could trust his motives in this crisis more than anyone else’s. He would be the last person to sell out to the Orthodox Wends.
The Hound shrugged. “You are right, my lord bishop. No disrespect to the constable or Captain Ekkehardt, but the strongest ally commands, always. I want Marijus here to be acting keeper of Castle Gallant. Just during the emergency, of course. Sir Marijus is the finest warrior among all my sons, well qualified to direct the defense of the castle.”
Marijus Vranov glanced around the group without speaking, nodding to each in turn; his eyes lingered longest on Madlenka. His nose was not as dominant as Havel’s and had been badly broken at some time in the past, but it must originally have had the same hooked shape. He was an imposing man, somehow, although he had yet to open his mouth. If she were to be forced into marriage with a Vranov, this one at least looked better than the first two suitors the count had produced-scars and all.
“Marijus has fought in Italy and France,” his father continued. “He is familiar with sieges and the use of guns. If he defends Castle Gallant against the coming attack, then he can reasonably petition the king for a permanent appointment. I will leave him behind as surety for my good faith while I rush home to make preparations.”
“It seems strange to me,” the bishop said, in his sonorous, trained voice, “to appoint a schismatic Orthodox commander to defend a Catholic country. You also want your pet priest to replace me as bishop, I assume?”
Religion could turn any discussion into a raging riot. Madlenka caught the seneschal’s eye and knew that he shared her foreboding.
“Not at all, Lord Bishop,” the count said calmly. “It is true that Father Vilhelmas is a friend of mine, but I remain a faithful son of Rome; my family likewise. You have my sacred word on it.” He crossed himself in the Catholic fashion, left to right. Marijus did the same.
The bishop beamed. “That is indeed welcome news. But then why did you bring Vilhelmas with you today, and the last time you visited Cardice? Why do you consort with a heretic cleric at all?”
The Hound chuckled. His air of confident good humor was probably designed to raise the bishop’s hackles. “Because he happens to be a relative of mine. A distant one, to be sure-about a third cousin, or so. My grandfather’s sister was captured in a raid from what is now Pomerania and carried off, never to return. Even so, Father Vilhelmas, her grandson, was bor
n in wedlock and is an authentic, ordained priest. And yes, I allow him a small chapel in Pelrelm. Your archbishop is well aware of this, as you must be yourself, my lord bishop. The frontier within the hills is not as clearly defined as one might like, and many residents of my county prefer their traditional form of worship. My bishop turns a blind eye. The border is hard enough to defend without having religious differences fomenting discord and disloyalty.”
“And why do you bring him here, this Vilhelmas?”
The count’s tone hardened. “Because you have secret Orthodox supporters in Gallant also, Lord Bishop. If you do not know that, you should. Vilhelmas has only to walk your streets and he will be invited indoors to hear confessions.”
“Or celebrate mass?”
“Please!” The interruption came from Marijus Vranov, who had not previously spoken. “We are here to talk war, not religion.”
“My son is right,” the count said. “We must unite. The best strategy for all of us is to appoint him temporary keeper of Castle Gallant.”
The resulting silence dragged on until Kavarskas said, “The terms are generous. I would serve under Sir Marijus on his terms.”
Why shouldn’t he approve those terms? He had probably helped negotiate them behind everyone else’s back, and been well paid for it already. At least there had been no mention of anyone being married yet.
“That is all?” the seneschal said at last.
The Hound opened his mouth, but his son spoke first. “It is enough! We are both threatened by the barbarous, schismatic Wends, and we must unite.”
Captain Ekkehardt had hardly spoken since Madlenka joined the meeting, but now he did. “It is not enough for me. Our contract is for overwintering and garrison duty, not enduring a siege.”
Silence and shocked glances. Surely the landsknechte were essential for any hope of holding off a Pomeranian assault?
The seneschal smiled toothlessly. “I am familiar with the contract. There is provision for more money if you have to fight. If the Wends do appear, then Cardice will certainly honor the contract. We expect you to do likewise.”
“Not enough more,” the landsknecht growled.
“You are backing out?” The older man spluttered like a kettle suddenly coming to a boil. “This… this is treachery! And cowardice. No ruler in Europe will hire your troop after this, Captain.”
The mercenary’s face was too well hidden behind its bush of gold hair to show a change of color, but his eyes flashed and his beard bristled. “There is no contract! The signing was made by Petr Bukovany, who is dead. His father is dead. The contract has lapsed, and I will lead my men out tomorrow.”
“The contract was signed by the keeper on behalf of King Konrad.”
“I saw no royal writing, no royal seal. This castle is indefensible against guns. Here to be slaughtered we do not stay.”
“He just wants more money,” Marijus Vranov said. “How much is he being paid now?”
The seneschal said, “Ten florins a month now, rising to twenty as soon as an enemy appears.”
“That is generous for three hundred lances. How much more do you want, Captain?”
Everyone looked to Ekkehardt, who said, “Forty, starting today.”
“Forty total, I hope, not forty more? You would serve under me, as acting keeper?”
“Yes. We have met before.”
Vranov’s son smiled for the first time, showing an excellent and complete set of teeth. It was a surprisingly persuasive smile. “In opposition. I prefer to have you at my side than in my face.” He could be charming when he wanted, seemingly.
“And I you.”
Madlenka wanted to heave a sigh of relief that the crisis seemed to have been resolved. If the news was bad, it was not as bad as it had seemed at first. So why did she have a nasty feeling that there was worse to come? Who were they waiting for? Well, if nobody else would say it, she would.
“There is one small problem, my lord count.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “I mean no offense, but we have only your word for it that the Wends are planning to attack.”
Vranov turned his head to smirk at her. “I was wondering who would have the courage to say that. Marijus was there to hear the spies’ reports, weren’t you, Marijus? My troops can start arriving in three or four days. By then, the constable will have sent out scouts to survey the road, won’t you have, Sir Karolis? The only other thing I can suggest is that we give you our most solemn oaths that we believe what I have told you to be true. You have some holy relic on which we may swear, my lord bishop?”
“We have a toe bone of St. Andrej in the cathedral,” Ugne said.
Who would trust Havel or his smashed-nose son if they swore on a whole churchyard of holy relics?
Then the landsknecht loosed another volley. “We will need payment in coin, mostly silver.”
The Hound frowned. “As will I, if I am to meet expenses.”
Seneschal Jurbarkas was wringing his hands. “I cannot provide such amounts without royal authority.”
The meeting exploded in shouts of disbelief. Madlenka was suddenly convinced that the whole discussion, ever since she arrived, had been rehearsed and staged in advance, like a passion play, and the true quarry was her father’s gold-her gold, now. But she could not believe that the seneschal, Giedre’s father, who had been like an uncle to her all her life, would have been part of such a conspiracy. Nor, and everyone else seemed to agree on this, could she believe that he would withhold the money needed to defend the castle against the Wends. That would make no sense at all.
The seneschal cowered away from the shouts. He seemed distressed and almost bewildered by the anger. “We do not have chests of coin hidden away. Our income comes from the tolls we gather from travelers, and few of them pay us in gold. The largest part comes from the big trader caravans that pass through here four times a year, two northbound and two southbound. They prefer not to carry bullion, so they pay in bills of exchange drawn on the Fugger Bank of Augsburg or the Medici Bank of Florence. Much of that scrip goes south to Mauvnik twice a year, as the king’s share. Both of this year’s remittances have already gone. As I was explaining to Lady Madlenka on our way here, I do not know how much of our substance belongs to the king and how much to her. I cannot in good conscience loot either the royal share or her inheritance until I am absolutely convinced that the threat is real and that there is no alternative. Not without the king’s authority.”
“Pig guts!” shouted the constable. “My men collect the merchants’ tolls, and we know how they are paid. Large caravans pay in bank drafts, yes, but none of the other travelers do. You pay the king his share with the drafts, because scrip is safer to transport than coin, but the real money goes into the count’s coffers. You must have millions of florins buried in the cellars.”
Marijus rose to his feet, taller and larger that Madlenka had expected.
“This is absurd,” he said. “By the time the Wends appear on your doorstep, it will be far too late to summon the Pelrelm levy, and Captain Ekkehardt and his landsknechte will be in Spain or Cathay. Are we children,” he demanded in a tone that echoed through the hall, “to squabble while the Dragon creeps ever closer? Let us go to the cathedral and bind ourselves in common cause against the foe. My father and I will swear to the truth of what we reported. I will swear to defend the castle to my last breath, if necessary, and to relinquish my command as soon as we succeed or the threat turns out to be a false alarm. Of course it should be Count Bukovany negotiating for Cardice, but he and his son were the first casualties of this war. Do any of you believe their deaths were mere coincidence? The rest of you-Lady Madlenka, Captain Ekkehardt, Constable Kavarskas, Seneschal Jurbarkas, and especially you, Bishop Ugne-represent him. You also represent the common folk of Gallant, who cannot defend themselves. You must swear to recognize me as acting keeper until the king or events dismiss me.
“And as for payment…” he said, smiling, “I am sure we can find all the gold we n
eed, even if we have to melt down St. Andrej’s altar vessels.”
CHAPTER 9
Brother Marek led the way along the refectory toward the kitchen entrance, moving with his previous solemn pace, toes in and head down, face hidden inside his cowl. Bringing up the rear, Wulf marveled again at how small he was, head and shoulders shorter than Anton. His lack of stature somehow emphasized his vulnerability to Abbot Bohdan’s anger and punishment. There was more to omnia audere than suicidal charges against phalanxes of spears.
He did not enter the kitchen itself, but turned aside through an iron-bound door, which led out to a green yard studded with small wooden crosses. Here, under the leering watch of the church’s gargoyles, brethren of bygone ages slumbered until the last trump should summon them.
Marek turned again and followed a path to a gate set in a high stone wall. He smiled as he selected the key he wanted from a bundle on a leather thong.
“We keep this gate locked because the herb garden is overlooked by the dormitory reserved for lady visitors. We mustn’t tempt the novices! There are no visitors at the moment. Later in the day, perhaps…”
The key turned with a groan. “More seriously, the first garden contains many herbs that can be dangerous, even just to touch. Many herbs with therapeutic properties can be poisonous in large doses, you know. Mandrake and cowbane and monkshood, for instances. This is a lesson to us that good and evil may walk hand in hand.”
“Can too much good ever be evil?” Wulf asked.
The monk glanced up at him with a twinkling smile, looking for a moment much like the old Marek of their childhood. “That is what I was preaching! Almost any good thing can be evil in excess-water can drown you, air can freeze you. It is meritorious to give alms, but suppose you gave everyone in the kingdom a thousand florins? They would all want to be lords! No one would work, the farmers would stop growing food, and we should all starve.”
After leading them into a large, walled enclosure and locking the gate behind them, he threw back his cowl. “Follow, and remember not to touch.” He set off along the path at a much faster pace, almost a run.