Speak to the Devil bm-1

by Dave Duncan

  Most houses in Gallant were three stories high, with the bottom level being used for storage, workshops, or livestock. The streets were made even narrower by innumerable stone staircases leading up to the domestic floors, and these made natural galleries for spectators. As more and more townsfolk appeared to watch the informal parade, they stood on those stairs or packed back between them to let the nobility pass, so that Madlenka felt she was walking along a two-story canyon of people. More faces peered out of every window. Some stared angrily and showed their teeth, but she was sure that their anger was not directed against her but at the infamous count, the Hound who burned cottages with families inside.

  As she and Marijus passed through the cathedral door, an argument broke out behind them, Leonas screaming that he wanted to come in, his father insisting that he stay outside with some of the guards.

  Marijus looked around with annoyance. “Leonas gets frightened in churches. I think he’s scared by the echoes. Come, we need not wait for the others.”

  Why not? Why was she here at all? Either her escort was lying about her marriage potential or he had some other use in mind for her. Was even the seneschal capable of betraying her? Of course he was, if he could be persuaded that it was for her own good, or in the king’s service. She went up the steps with Marijus and entered the dimness.

  Somehow the cathedral seemed both smaller and grander when it was empty. She and Marijus led the procession along the nave toward where Bishop Ugne was already standing on the steps of the sanctuary, clad again in his vestments. She let her companion decide when to halt, and the rest of her companions spread out in a line on either side of them. The troopers-garrison, Pelrelm honor guard, and landsknechte — halted a few steps back. The cathedral did not fall completely silent, though, and when Madlenka glanced around, she saw many people pouring in the west doors, anxious to witness whatever was going to happen. As if doubting their right to spy on their betters, they were staying back and close to the walls, so newcomers had no choice but to move farther forward.

  Bishop Ugne frowned at the unexpected audience, but he could hardly order the people out of the house of God. He announced a prayer for divine guidance and protection, but the quiet shuffling noises at the back resumed as soon as it was over. This public meeting was a serious error, Madlenka decided, but to terminate it now would be a worse one.

  The bishop went to the altar and fetched the precious jeweled reliquary that held the bone of St. Andrej.

  “Havel, my son, you have a statement to make?” he asked softly.

  The Hound stepped forward. “I do, my lord bishop.” But then he unexpectedly raised his voice and made a proclamation instead. “I employ men to spy on what is happening across the border in Pomerania. Last week three of them independently told me that they had seen Duke Wartislaw’s army moving south along the Silver Road. He has fifteen or twenty thousand men and is bringing a very big bombard and some other artillery, and he seems to be heading for Cardice.”

  Sounds carried well in the old church, and moans of dismay announced that the townsfolk had learned of their peril. The bishop frowned angrily. Wondering if that was what Vranov had wanted all along, Madlenka glanced at Marijus, but his expression told her nothing.

  Havel repeated his offer of aid, conditional on payment.

  The bishop waited a moment to be sure he had finished, then held out the reliquary. “Place your right hand on this. Do you solemnly swear…?”

  The Hound swore as he hoped for salvation that what he had just said was the truth.

  Then Marijus stepped forward and swore he would faithfully defend the fortress if he were acknowledged as acting keeper. He, too, spoke out loudly. People were entering by the side doors also now, and the tidings of war and allies had the cathedral humming like a summer beehive.

  For a moment it did seem that an agreement had been reached.

  Then everything collapsed.

  Captain Ekkehardt was not as loud as the Pelrelmians had been, but he did not whisper either. He repeated that he was quite willing to fight for forty florins a month, but again he stipulated that he must be paid in coin. Again Vranov said so must he. Again the seneschal said he could not provide such funds without royal approval, and everyone tried to speak at once. Even the bishop was raising his voice now. The congregation groaned. There was no shyness now-people were pushing forward to hear.

  Stupid, stupid old man! How could the seneschal not see that by hoarding the king’s money, he was putting the king’s fortress in peril? In fact he was risking the entire kingdom.

  Madlenka realized that she was about to lose her temper. It was a bad habit of hers, as her mother had told her many times. Indeed, they had often had screaming matches about it. She always promised never to do it again, and she hadn’t done it for… a while. Not seriously, anyway. She discovered that she did not care what the cost might be. She wanted to explode like a bombard, so she strode forward three steps to join the men in front of the bishop.

  “Stop it! STOP IT! Seneschal Jurbarkas, if you will not spend the king’s money, then I will spend mine. You must have far more than two thousand florins put away for my dowry. I know you do. Father told me. So I will lend that money to defend the castle.”

  More uproar, with the townsfolk joining in, cheering her. Crimson-faced, Bishop Ugne was trying to restore order in the Lord’s house. Eventually he got silence.

  “That money is not yours, Madlenka,” he said. “You are not of age, and besides, it would belong to your husband. Stand back!”

  She did not budge. She had foreseen that argument. She knew the seneschal, and how he had never done anything without her father’s permission. What he needed now was an excuse to help her. She tried to argue and had to shout over the others’ voices. Probably all that they heard were her final words: “…read the banns!”

  “What?” They all spoke in chorus.

  The question seemed to echo outward in circles like ripples on a pond.

  “Read the banns for me to marry Marijus Vranov, of course.” She looked around at the appalled faces. “I’m not saying to marry us! Banns just ask if anyone knows of an objection to us getting married, that’s all. We know there is because the king has forbidden it, but nobody else does.”

  Judging by the bishop’s expression, he had not been informed of that royal edict. Madlenka plunged ahead with what was already beginning to feel like a serious mistake.

  “A marriage wouldn’t be valid, and I certainly couldn’t get married so soon after… after… while I am still in mourning. But once you have read the banns the first time, then Seneschal Ramunas can advance money to my betrothed, can’t you, Uncle?”

  Bishop Ugne looked ready to explode. “You would have me profane this house by making a proclamation I know to be false?”

  “It isn’t false!” Madlenka stamped her foot. “Banns are just a question if anyone knows of a reason why there can’t be a marriage. Uncle, will it work?” She hadn’t called the seneschal that since she was a child.

  They were all looking at her as if she still was. Had she made a fool of herself in front of half the town?

  Worse-had she fallen into a carefully prepared trap? Why was Vranov smiling?

  “Yes, it would,” the Hound said.

  “I suppose it would,” Sir Jurbarkas conceded, accepting this fig leaf of authority. “I may still get hanged for grand larceny, but I could do that.”

  “Then stand back, all of you,” Bishop Ugne said. He wheeled around and strode back to the altar, to replace the reliquary. Then he returned to his vantage point on the steps. The nave was full and the transepts were filling up also.

  He addressed the congregation. “As you heard, we fear an attack by soldiers from Pomerania, but Count Vranov of Pelrelm is going to provide men and guns to help us. I have one brief announcement to make and then we will offer our prayers to the Lord for his aid and comfort.”

  “That was the fastest courtship I ever heard of,” Marijus whispe
red, grinning at Madlenka.

  She wished she had lowered her veil, but it might burst into flames if she did, her face was burning so. “A diplomatic marriage,” she whispered. Reaction was setting in and she was trembling. She must have gone crazy. Shouting down a bishop in his own cathedral? Whatever would Mother say when she heard?

  Bishop Ugne came down to stand directly in front of her and Marijus, so that he could keep the announcement private.

  “Marijus Vranov, widower,” Marijus said. “Parish of St. Juozapas, Woda.”

  The bishop nodded and glanced at the seneschal to make certain that he was listening. Lowering his voice, clearly anxious not to provoke any objections from the hundreds of witnesses, he said very quickly and quietly, “I publish the banns of marriage between Marijus Vranov, widower, of the parish of St. Juozapas in Woda in the county of Pelrelm, and Madlenka Bukovany, spinster, of this parish. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, you are to declare it. This is for the first time of asking.” Finishing his quiet declaration, Bishop Ugne looked up to address the congregation, raising his hands and his voice. “Let us-”

  “I so declare!” roared a voice, rousing the echoes.

  Heads whipped around to find the speaker.

  CHAPTER 11

  Wulf uttered a last, gurgling scream and went limp, toppling both brothers out of limbo. Anton landed on a patch of dirty wet sand, with Wulf slamming down on top of him. Had he not been wearing armor, the impact might have broken his back, and it did knock all the breath out of him, but he still managed to rip off a barrage of oaths as he struggled free. They had landed on a roughly made trail, most of which was heavily rutted and surfaced with sharp rocks. A small freshet from a recent rainstorm had spread out a patch of silt and fine debris, and it was the only flat place in sight. Either Wulf or his saints had chosen the target carefully.

  “Wulf? Wulf! ”

  No response. Anton rolled him over and stared in horror. The kid’s face was all swollen and discolored as if he’d been worked over by a whole team of prizefighters. How could that happen inside his armor? His lips were swollen and bleeding, and he had probably bitten his tongue, for he began to choke on the blood. Anton hastily rolled him facedown again and felt for the pulse at his wrist. He found it eventually, but it was faint and much too fast. The boy needed help, and soon.

  Anton was not in the best of shape himself, but he struggled to his feet and looked around. The track was bounded on one side by a near-vertical bank of moss and boulders, tufted with a few grimly clinging shrubs, and on the other by a steep drop; he could hear a river grumbling down there. The valley was about a mile wide but it widened southward into a forested plain. The far wall was a mixture of rocky and thick forest, too steep to be any use, and dusted with recent snow higher up. The near side seemed no more cooperative. The trail on which he stood had been hacked out of the cliff by hand and was barely wide enough for a single wagon.

  A sizable company of men had walked over the mud not very long ago, going downhill. A mile or so away, he thought he could make out a settlement, not a village, but a military camp for three or four hundred people, perhaps. Uphill…

  Uphill his view was blocked by a slight bend in the road. He clumped over to the far edge and found himself looking up at a magnificent fortress, the original for the engraving the cardinal had given him, and not a hundred yards away. Done it! He had managed to arrive at Castle Gallant, his castle for as long as he might live. He ran back to make a quick check on Wulf, and then set off to fetch help.

  The high curtain wall of reddish stone stood on top of a matching cliff, curving away out of sight. He could see how Castle Gallant had come by its reputation of impregnability. Certainly it could not be undermined, and no ladder ever built could reach from the valley floor to the top of the walls. Old-style siege engines-trebuchets and mangonels-were too inefficient to do much good unless a large number of them could be brought to bear, and here there was simply no room to site them.

  Yet, however secure that formidable barbican must have been in its day, now it would be vulnerable to modern gunnery. The bend in the road would be a godsend for attackers, who could work outward from its shelter, building a redoubt of stonework to block the defenders’ archery and shelter the gunners as they dug in their bombards. They would have a clear shot at the gates. Fortunately, this wasn’t Spain or Italy. Large-scale artillery hadn’t arrived in Jorgary yet.

  This was certainly the Jorgary side of the fortress, and the Wends would be coming from the north. It was Anton Magnus’s job to keep the Wends out.

  The gate was closed, which was an unwelcome surprise. That implied a state of war, and perhaps even that the castle had already been seized by the Wends-why else close the gate on the Jorgarian side? It also meant that the garrison would be keeping a lookout, so he would have been seen already. He unlaced his satchel to find his baldric and baton. More than hard exercise was making his heart pound now. The castle was farther away than he had thought, uphill was uphill, and armor was damned heavy.

  Last night he had imagined himself riding in on Morningstar’s back, a gallant, handsome young nobleman sent by the king to take charge. In reality he was arriving as a sweating, breathless vagrant, muddy, bedraggled, and without as much as a sword. Wulf had slobbered blood down the left side of his surcoat. Still, Anton’s appearances would matter very little if the porters were Duke Wartislaw’s men and not King Konrad’s.

  The gate was a portcullis that could probably be closed in an instant, tons of ironbound timber falling free. Gasping for breath, Anton arrived at a grilled window off to one side and stared at a stubbled face framed by a mail coif. A closed gate and men-at-arms instead of porters definitely indicated a state of war.

  “Declare yourself!” The words were garbled by a guttural Northern accent.

  “I…” Anton paused to think. Had Count Bukovany died? If he hadn’t, Anton must not announce himself as the new lord of the marches. He would have to be Marshal Magnus, come to direct the defense of the fortress, and his other documents would have to remain out of sight. If Bukovany was dead, then why was the new count arriving alone and on foot instead of with a train of at least a hundred knights?

  “Open in the… name of the… king!”

  He held up one of his scrolls to let the sergeant see the royal bear and the king’s seal.

  It worked. The man’s eyes widened in astonishment. They took in the seal, his youth, the baton he held in his other hand, the golden baldric. He saluted.

  “Master Sergeant Jachym, your servant, my lord. Open the sally port!”

  Bars and bolts thumped, hinges creaked. The narrow sally port door swung open and Anton stepped through to face half a dozen grinning guards.

  “There is a man…” He pointed. “Just around the corner. Badly hurt. Um, had a bad fall. Horse dragged him. Have him brought in and cared for. Well cared for! He is my brother!” he added menacingly. “See to that first, Master Sergeant. Now! ”

  Jachym barked. A trooper ran into the castle.

  Everyone was waiting for more orders. Anton tucked his baton under his left arm and twirled his mustache with his right hand. “The count?”

  The sergeant’s first reaction was to cross himself, which answered the question even before his mumbled prayer for Bukovany’s soul.

  “Amen. Then I need someone… lead me to…” To whom? Cardinal Zdenek had warned him against the constable. If Anton dropped in on him he might find himself bouncing straight on into a dungeon- “…the countess.” She was the least likely to be involved in the treason that Cardinal Zdenek had suggested.

  Jachym frowned. He was a bull-necked man with a ruddy face and hard, searching eyes. So far he was reacting well to this sudden emergency. “Countess Edita is reported to be grave afflicted, my lord. Lady Madlenka, her daughter? Seneschal Jurbarkas? Or… of course… Constable Kavarskas…?”

  His mouth said that. His fac
e, his stance, his phrasing were all screaming, “Not Constable Kavarskas!” And yet Kavarskas was his superior! His other men’s expressions flickered, but there were too many for Anton to read individually. He registered only that even the garrison had doubts about their commander.

  Four men came running out and sped off down the hill, two of them carrying blankets and poles to rig a stretcher. Anton had done as much as he could for Wulf. Meanwhile he must make a choice. Lady Madlenka was certainly tempting, but he would have to delay the pleasure of that meeting.

  “…to the seneschal,” he said. It was he who had sent the report to Cardinal Zdenek.

  At least a dozen more Cardice troopers had appeared in the barbican, while in the shadowy background lurked a trio of very different warriors, resplendent in the spectacular garb of landsknechte. Otto and Vlad often entertained landsknecht friends at Dobkov. These three were observing, not participating. Their leader would want his own reports on anything that happened at the gate.

  “Llywelyn!” the sergeant said. “Take your squad and escort His Lordship to the keep and find the seneschal for him. You are under his orders.”

  Llywelyn was a man of around fifty, with a lethal, case-hardened look to him. He lined up his squad behind him with a few sharp words in another accent altogether, then indicated that Anton should head toward the far side of the barbican. He had enormous arms and shoulders; no doubt his armor was hiding a twisted spine.

  “You’re no crossbowman,” Anton said. “The English longbow’s your weapon.”

  Llywelyn beamed at this display of expertise. “It used to be, my lord.”

  Baroness Pavla had died when Wulf was born, so all Anton’s life the table talk at Dobkov had been of military matters-from Father and his guests, and later from Ottokar and Vladislav. Anton had known an arquebus from a halberd and a ravelin from a trace Italienne before he wore his first pair of shoes. It couldn’t hurt now to demonstrate that he was wise for his years.