by Dave Duncan
“What was Hound Vranov up to?” he asked.
“I don’t know, my lord. He arrived this morning with two hundred men-at-arms and claimed that the Wends are about to attack and we must accept his son Marijus as keeper of the castle.”
“I see. And whose idea was it to throw your dowry into the pot?”
“Mine,” she confessed, and explained how the seneschal was frightened to spend the king’s money.
“He told you so?”
“Um. No. Marijus did.”
“Then I think I arrived just in time.”
“I believe you. What do you think they were up to?”
“Just guessing, I’d say the money was to buy off the landsknechte and send them packing. Then you would have found the town and castle full of Pelrelmian troops.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “We were all deceived. And when the Wends came?”
“He was probably making up the Wend story,” Anton assured her.
“But both he and Marijus swore on the bone of holy St.-”
“Oaths mean nothing to such men.” Cardinal Zdenek had thought the Wends were a threat, but he needn’t bother her with that news. “If Duke Wartislaw did invade, Vranov might have sold him Castle Gallant for cash and a guarantee that his own county would not be harmed. It doesn’t matter now. Don’t worry about it.”
The streets were too narrow for a true parade, but the stairs along both sides provided handy grandstands for the cheering crowds. The people of Cardice were no longer orphans. They had a count again, a nobleman to defend them and tell them what to do. The king himself had sent him! Men doffed their hats and shouted blessings as he passed. Women curtseyed or even knelt. Gallant was an ants’ nest of tightly packed houses, a firetrap. He would have to do something about that if the Wends did show up.
His first impression of the keep was rank disappointment. It was a fortress, of course, but a fortress did not have to look like an oversized grave marker. The only windows were mere loopholes, so the inside would be dark and probably cramped. His childhood home at Dobkov was a fortress, too, but it stood in rolling green countryside.
Of course the entire castle staff was already lined up at the door to cheer the new count. Once inside, Anton demanded his valet, who turned out to be named Kaspar and old enough to be Cardinal Zdenek’s father. Washing water, Anton demanded, and it must be hot. He ordered the seneschal to organize the exchange of oaths, which he was told would be held in the great hall. He could remember his father having to put up with such ceremonies-cursing them in private before and after, but being invariably courteous and patient during. Count Magnus must practice courteous and patient.
He did not think much of the great hall, which was too narrow for its length, but it did have proper glazed windows, looking out into a central bailey, and from them he could see many other windows. So the keep was hollow, not the solid block he had thought at first glance. His place for the fealty ceremony would be on the big chair at the fireplace end. There was a smaller chair beside it, but he was not going to share the honors with Madlenka just yet. There must be no question that he had been appointed by the king and would rule in his own right, not as her husband.
He kissed her fingers. “Everyone has to come and meet me,” he whispered. “They know you already, so there is no need to bore you with unnecessary introductions to people who have known you all your life. I expect you will need to rest for a little while after all the excitement in the cathedral.”
“As my lord pleases,” she said, blushing. Few things roused him as fast as a girl’s blushes, although he usually saw them in more intimate surroundings.
The seneschal himself began the proceedings, first reading out the king’s edicts, then kneeling on the cushion to put his hands between Anton’s and swear to be his man, of life and limb, and so on. Since there was no constable present, the steward came after him, followed by all the rest in strict order of precedence. Each had to swear allegiance, then be granted protection and a few kind words. This was how the barons of Dobkov did it, so the count of Cardice must do the same, pretending not to be bored to distraction. Thinking lascivious thoughts about his future bride might help.
And where was Wulf? Wulf was important. Anton would need Wulf and his saintly friends to deal with the Wends. How to find him? The answer appeared when the butler withdrew and the next flunky to come hobbling forward was presented as Radim, the count’s secretary. Radim was young, slight, and leaned on a cane because he had a clubfoot, which explained why he had been taught to wield a pen instead of a pitchfork. Ottokar employed a secretary, as had Father before him. Anton knew how a secretary was used.
“How long were you Count Stepan’s secretary?”
“Half a year, my lord. Clerk for a year before that.”
“You write a fair hand?”
The youth nodded, licked his lips, and said, “His Lordship said I did, my lord. And so does the bishop.”
“Good. How many messengers can you call on?”
“Five or six, my lord. Not so many today, unless you give me time to-”
“One or maybe two will suffice.” Anton explained about Wulf.
Radim nodded vigorously, touched his forehead in salute, and limped off to be useful. Anton sat back to receive an oath of allegiance from the castle apothecary.
By the time the parade ended, the boy was back, hovering within sight, but not intruding. He had the answer. “Sir Wulfgang is being cared for in the infirmary, my lord. He has been bled and is under sedation.”
Anton had to be content with that alarming news until he had made a brief speech, promising not to change anything in the ways his predecessor had done things, except to wipe the Wends’ faces in the mud. He accepted three cheers.
Having informed the seneschal that he would like to dine shortly-with the lady Madlenka, if she would be so kind-and would need clothes so he could shed his accursed armor and temporary quarters for himself and Wulf, Anton told Radim to lead him to the infirmary, which meant downstairs, outside, and down the ramp. The crowd had dispersed, although a few knots of people still stood around the little square, all gaping in awe at their new count.
Problems buzzed in Anton’s mind like midges. He had made a good start, but he had not earned his Vaclav sash yet. The Wends were one threat, Havel Vranov was another, and if they were in league, then they could come at Cardice from opposite sides. Had the castle ever had to withstand a two-pronged attack before? And why, in the name of God, had his predecessor ever let all these houses be built inside what was supposed to be a fortress? More immediate and personal was the dangerous question of timing. The common folk would simply be grateful that the king’s man had appeared to take over, but the bishop and other gentry would wonder how the new count had traveled so swiftly. Were there any other gentry? This was border country, thinly inhabited.
Quite apart from having a bad leg, Radim did not even come up to Anton’s shoulder, so Anton was continually having to rein himself and let the boy catch up. The streets were lined along both sides with outdoor staircases. Radim stopped at one that looked just like all the others, but he was clearly waiting to follow the count up it, so up Anton went-ten steps into hell.
The infirmary was a single room containing eight beds with barely enough space to move between them. It was dim, cold, and rank with the lingering stench of sickness and death. The doctor in charge was stooped and ancient; either he or his physician’s robe stank abominably. Possibly both did, but the robe likely carried most of the blame, being encrusted with a lifetime’s supply of blood, phlegm, and pus to show how practiced its wearer was. All the beds were occupied. Two of the patients were mumbling in agony or delirium, three others coughed continually.
For a moment Anton did not recognize the face on the pillow, only the tangle of flaxen hair. Wulf’s eyes and lips were hugely swollen and turning purple. He had been drooling blood. He looked even worse than he had when he was lying unconscious on the hillside trail. Some of his armor
was stacked beside the bed, but some wasn’t and had probably been stolen already.
“Wulf? Wulfgang!”
The puffed eyelids flickered and opened to slits. “’Nt’n?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You… whoreson… Ge’me outa this plague pit.”
“Yes, I will. Sorry, Wulf.”
“He’s confused!” the doctor said petulantly. “Severe trauma, but no bones broken, so far as I can tell under the swelling. I drew twelve ounces of blood and prescribed henbane, hemlock, and laudanum for the pain.”
Anton drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the obnoxious leech.
“My father used to say he had watched twenty-four men die and twenty-two of them were killed by doctors.”
“My lord!”
“Yes, I am, and don’t you forget it. You will not go near this man again, is that clear? I want him moved to the keep instantly. Radim, can you arrange that?”
The youth turned a horrified stare into a grin. “Certainly, my lord. The infirmary must have a stretcher. I’ll find some strong arms.” He hobbled two steps to the door and peered out, then started shouting names.
CHAPTER 14
Madlenka stormed into her bedroom. As the door closed behind her, she whirled around. “That popinjay! That upstart! That freakishly oversized, ditch-born son of a sow. Did you hear him?”
Giedre said, “Yes.” That did not dam the torrent.
“Go and lie down, he said! Rest my poor little self! Too much excitement? What sort of a child does he think I am?” Madlenka grabbed up a painted vase and took aim at the fireplace. “Who does he think he is?”
Giedre removed the missile just before her mistress’s throwing hand began to move. “He’s the king’s man. He’s the count of Cardice. He’s your betrothed and future husband.”
“He’s a snake! He sent me to my room! He wants everyone to see him as lord of Cardice and forget that it’s marriage to me that gives him his place.”
“It was the king who put him there, not you.”
“You too? You also think I’m just part of the furniture? A serf tied to the land?” Madlenka caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face was redder than strawberries and all her teeth were showing. Oh, horrors!
“Well, you are a sort of serf,” Giedre said. “Tied to his bed by royal decree. Arturas says that the fancy sash he wears means that he’s a trusted friend of the king!”
Madlenka forced herself to sit down on the stool and fold her hands on her lap. “I knew it! I knew it! No soldier, just a courtier. The arrogance of the man! I have never met such an overblown, self-important prig. We need a warrior and they send somebody’s juvenile son that they don’t know what else to do with. Probably escaping from a paternity problem involving triplets. He can’t know which end of a pike is the handle.”
The problem was that she had expected an older man, a mature man. Someone not unlike Father, in fact, just a little younger. Calm, fond, deliberate, soothing. This Anton didn’t seem much older that Petr had been, and he was anything but soothing. The way he looked at her…
Worse, perhaps, was that she had no idea what to expect after the inevitable wedding ceremony. Nobody would even talk about that. No one ever explained. She knew that all women were instruments of the devil, sent to entrap men in sins of lust and vice, but she had no idea how she was expected to go about it. She knew what dogs did with bitches and ganders with geese, but visions of her squatting on the floor with her arms spread out and Anton standing on her back while gripping her neck failed to convince, somehow.
The way he looked at her, Anton knew exactly what she was expected to do and would want her to do it right away.
Giedre moved in close and began to dismantle Madlenka’s headgear-hat, veil, and coif.
“I thought he handled the landsknecht in the church very well, didn’t you?” she asked serenely. “He obviously knew what he was talking about, because he impressed that hairy German troll. And just this morning you were moaning that the king would send you a warrior. Foulmouthed, fat, and forty, I think you said, with the manners of a rutting boar.” She took up a hairbrush and began to wield it.
Which was very annoying of her, because having her hair brushed never failed to bring Madlenka out of her tantrums.
“The manners fit. You think sixteen and thin as rope is an improvement?”
“Oh, yes! He’s a lot older than sixteen. And if what they say about tall men is true, his… feelings will be a lot deeper than most husbands’.”
Madlenka thought of stallions. “Stop it! I’m nervous enough already.”
Her friend smiled smugly. “What I think is that if your Count Magnus hadn’t turned up just when he did, the Vranovs would be shipping your inheritance out the gate on a mule train about now. And you with it. Which one of them would you want to be married to, if you had your choice?”
“Leonas. I’ve always liked hair that color and he does what he’s told. What am I going to wear? I’m bereaved and betrothed, both. Half black and half white?”
“The purple velvet. It suits you. His eyes will pop.”
“They already pop too much.” But, yes, neither mourning nor too festive. The purple was somber but the gown itself full and rich, with short bodice, clutched-up skirt trimmed with ermine; a neckline low enough to be interesting and a bucket-shaped hat with dangling white lace. That would do. Her hair down, of course. Soon she would be married and wearing it up. “Oh, Giedre! What would happen if I refused him?”
The hairbrush began moving faster. “Don’t even dream of it! You’d be tossed into a convent, I expect. What’s wrong with him? He’s conceited, maybe, but he has a lot to be conceited about-young, handsome, trusted friend of the king, one of the leading peers of the realm, a lord of the marches. Most women settle for much less.”
“I suppose so,” Madlenka sighed. A convent would feel like a very safe place about now. “It’s just that… I had always hoped that one day I’d meet the man I was going to marry and… lightning would flash in our eyes and angels blow on silver trumpets.”
Her friend made a noise perilously close to a snort. “You have been listening to far too many troubadours. It doesn’t work that way. You say the words, he does what he does, and the next night he does it again, and by the end of the week you’re begging for it. My mother told me. And my grandmother. And your father’s grandson will rule in Castle Gallant long after long Anton Magnus is gone.”
Madlenka laughed. “That’s true! Whatever would I do without you to keep my feet on the ground?”
“You are favored, what of me? Where is the even-more-handsome brother I was promised?”
That had always been their private joke-that when Madlenka was sent off somewhere to be the wife of some handsome young noble, Giedre would go with her to be her mistress of the robes, and would then marry the theoretical duke’s theoretical younger brother. Who would, of course, be either almost as handsome or even more handsome, depending on which of them was spinning the fantasy.
“I expect he stayed home to feed the hounds,” Madlenka countered. “Or he may have a few years’ growing up to do yet. Be patient! Now I must dress. We’ll have to find somewhere for the count to sleep until
… And we have to get Mother out of the baronial bedchamber before… Oh, Lord! The wedding night! Although I don’t suppose she’d notice if we joined her there. And what sort of an army did he bring? Have the Pelrelmians gone from High Meadows, or did he wipe them out on his way in? Single-handed, I expect. He thinks he’s capable of it. And he didn’t bring any baggage, did he? He’ll need clothes made.”
“Petr was tall. Would any of his things do?”
“No. Magnus is a hand taller, at least, and half as wide. If I am not to be wooed by a man permanently clad in armor, we’d better send for every tailor in town, Sunday or not.”
An hour later, Madlenka was sitting in the solar, sharing some bread and honey with Giedre. They ate eagerly, for it
was well past noon and they had not yet broken their fast. The ceremony in the hall had ended, but Anton Magnus had gone out of the keep without a word of explanation to his betrothed. Madlenka could not even complain about this insult, because she knew that he was in no way required to report his movements to her. She had three tailors waiting down in the kitchens. Dinner was late, for the Sunday repast required the presence of the count to say grace. He might not be aware of that custom, of course.
Count Vranov and his escort had been evicted from the south gate. His men were packing up their tents in High Meadows. That much she knew. There was no sign of a Jorgarian army approaching. Just how Magnus had materialized in the cathedral remained a mystery, and Vranov’s hints of Speaking refused to be banished from her mind. If witchcraft could move a man unseen into a church, it could probably counterfeit the royal seal, too. Mustn’t think about such things.
The door opened; in walked the count.
“Ah, there you are. My, that looks good. Come, I have someone you must meet.”
The women had risen, of course. Madlenka said, “Dinner, my lord-”
“In a minute. This won’t take long.” He offered his arm and she had to accept.
Even indoors he walked too fast for her, clanking and jingling. “My brother Wulfgang is my squire. He came with me, and I’ve just rescued him from the infirmary.”
“Oh, no! Not that awful place?”
“Yes. I’ll do something about ‘that awful place’ as soon as I get the chance. I can’t understand… Well, no matter.” He was hinting that her father should have done something about it. Which was probably true, a pox on him!