by Dave Duncan
Wulf was too tired to think straight. “So where do I fit in?”
Darina drained her glass and reached for the carafe. “Last week, during the hunt aingh="1em" t Chestnut Hill, your brother jumped a ditch into notoriety. A dozen fools tried to follow him and met with disaster. Two of the prince’s closest cronies have since died and more are still in plaster. Then the Spider promoted this Magnus madman to earl of Cardice! Cabbage Head saw that as a deliberate stab in his eye and threw a temper tantrum, but as a result the whole court learned for the first time about the Magnus family and its centuries of loyalty to the House of Jorgar.” She smiled cynically. “Stupid, really. If your loyalty is never in doubt, you never need bribing. It’s the shaky ones who get wooed by both sides… Never mind that.” She clattered the carafe down on the table and lifted her goblet again.
“I was hoping that your loyalty might impel you to take the new king under your wing until such time as someone with some sense takes over the kingdom-a new first minister or a warlike neighbor.”
Wulf laughed aloud and tasted the wine. “Last week I was my brother’s varlet. Now you want me to run the country?”
“Somebody will have to.”
“Me?” He grinned at her. “Wouldn’t I have to live here, in the palace? Hang around with the king? Attend court? And he blames my brother for his friends’ deaths. How do I win his trust and approval?”
He expected her to say that he could tweak his liege lord, which he would certainly never do. But that wasn’t what she suggested. “Just smile.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “Cabbage Head has a great fondness for handsome young men. When he sees your silver hair and golden eyes he’ll melt into the carpet. And those calves will make him swoon.”
“Oh, no!” Wulf sprang to his feet. “There are many ways to get burned at the stake, my lady, but sodomy is the last one I’ll ever try. I thank you for the-”
“Wait!” She rose also. “Before you make up your mind, come and pay your respects to your dying lord. He deserves that much.”
Wulf followed her to the door reluctantly, still looking for the trap. Again she expected his arm as they proceeded along a corridor, which was wide and high, floored with tiles of black and white marble, lit by candles in sconces every few feet. The plastered walls bore faded frescoes of battle and tourney.
“I know this may sound incredible in view of his reputation,” Darina said, “but the prince is practically sexless. His lechery is all bluff. I’m officially his mistress, but I swear to you that the door between our rooms stays closed. About once a month he’ll come calling, always when he’s very drunk. He’ll have a quick scramble and then go back to his own bed. I complain loudly in public about how demanding he is; that pleases him, but it’s all pig manure. As for the young men, I’m not sux20s ore he is even aware how he ogles them, although of course everyone else can see. He paws and fondles a little, but that’s as far as he ever goes. He seeks his fun in jousting and hunting. Lists and forests are his playrooms, not bedrooms. Beds are for sleeping off drinking bouts. He’s a magnificent horseman and swordsman. He loves wrestling. Even granting that most of them would let him win in any case, he is really good, very strong for his age, and very fast.”
“Orgies?” Wulf said. “I heard enough wild tales in the stables, when I was Anton’s varlet.” The prince’s mistress was said to be an enthusiastic participant in such parties.
“He likes to watch and cheer them on. His trunk hose will bulge sometimes, but he keeps the laces tied.”
“What about his wife, Princess Olga?”
“He packed her off to a convent three weeks after the wedding. Officially because she was frigid, but in fact because she was too demanding.”
Wulf’s skeptical snort annoyed Marquessa Darina, as it was meant to.
Her tone sharpened. “I was Looking! She was a virgin, so she had no idea what was expected of her, or how to arouse a man. She threw tantrums from sheer frustration, and that shriveled him up even more. Women scare him. Men fascinate him, but he knows they’re off-limits.”
They turned a corner into another corridor, wider and brighter. About thirty feet away, two men-at-arms in shining armor stood guard outside a doorway. They watched suspiciously as the visitors approached, but the marquessa stopped outside another, smaller door. Wulf opened it for her and followed her through, into a room that was barely more than a cubicle: dim, cramped, and furnished with a couch and a low table. It had no fireplace, and thick drapes hid the window, but a smaller window in a side wall admitted a faint light. And to that she led her guest.
In the bedroom beyond, lit by tall candles, lay the dying king, propped against pillows, with his mouth loosely open and his wispy silver beard neatly combed over a coverlet of royal blue. His hands seemed unnaturally large attachments for the slender wrists protruding from the frilly sleeves of his nightgown. Where was the vibrant warrior Wulf’s father had described, haranguing his troops before battles? That Konrad had not been a wasted, prune-faced mummy. Nor was this the royal head on the coinage.
Why didn’t they let the poor old man die in peace?
A nurse sat on a chair on the left side of the bed, embroidering. On a cushion on the right knelt a tonsured friar, telling a rosary. He had a nimbus and he sensed the watchers right away, for he turned to look at them, especially Wulf.
“One of Zdenek’s hirelings,” Darina said. “It’s been a long ordeal for them, but it can’t be much longer now. Even talent cannot keep him alive forever.”
Two’s company, three’s dangerous. The friar rose, strode across the room, and closed a shutter over the window. If he considered that a dying monarch should not be treated as a peepshow, Wulf could not disagree. He muttered an Ave.
“Amen,” the marquessa said. “Now come and see Exhibit Two.”
So she had more entertainment planned. As soon as Wulf followed her back out to the corridor, cheerful male voices warned him what was about to happen. Darina halted him at a corner to listen. By then the male voices had stopped and a woman was lecturing.
“In the spring,” she said, “it matters how long since it was captured. You have to take a hard look at the condition of its fur and how much fat it has on it. If it’s straight out of hibernation, then it may put up a good show, because it’ll be mean as shit, but it will soon tire, so you bet on the dogs. If its handlers have fed it for a few weeks, then it has a much better chance. But even so, I almost never bet on the bear in springtime.
“In the fall, now, you know it will have built up a good layer of blubber and thick winter fur, and that’s when the dogs have a problem. That’s when you look at the dogs-how many of them there are, and what scars do they have to show their experience? Too many wounds make a dog shy, a shitty fighter. Just a few will give it experience and teach it some tricks. So you have to sum up the pack and bet accordingly. Unless there are at least six dogs and they look lean and fit and have never been too badly mauled, then I bet on the bear in fall.”
A man asked, “And what about summer, sire?”
Sire? Wulf looked in shock at his companion. They had just come from the king on his deathbed. There was only one person in the kingdom who might usurp the title of “sire.” If that was Crown Prince Konrad speaking, he must be a countertenor.
“Summer?” the prince shrilled. “Oh, only fools like you would bet on a bearbaiting in summer, Gus.”
Men laughed.
“In summer you have to look at both the bear and the dogs. And remember that sometimes when a bear wins in the spring, it will heal enough to be fought again by summer, but of course it has a very slim chance of winning a second time… although I did see a bear that won twice. Must have been almost ten years ago…”
The crown prince babbled on, more nonsense. A womanish voice would be a serious handicap for any leader. Vlad shouting orders sounded like a mountain torrent rolling boulders. No matter what his state of mind, young Konrad would always sound panic-str
icken. Wulf stole another look at Darina, who raised a painted eyebrow as if to say, Now you know why we call him Cabbage Head.
But even he exhausted the fascinating topic of bearbaiting eventually. “Well,” he said, “let’s go and insp; s ifyect King Konrad the Late, shall we? Then we can go back and get on with some serious drinking and buggery.”
Around the corner he strode, leading an entourage of about a dozen men-six or seven young, brightly dressed male courtiers plus a squad of men-at-arms bearing silvered pikes.
The younger Konrad was a surprise: firstly because he looked no older than Wulf himself, secondly because he was short and one expected royalty to be tall. His tunic, cape, and hat were superbly tailored, but cut from drab grays and browns, as if in deliberate contrast to the peacock grandeur of his escort. To a man, his multicolored companions were all taller and slimmer, but even the men-at-arms were mere fresh-faced youths. He was a moth among butterflies.
The prince’s face was pathetically ugly, lopsided and fleshy, as if it had been ill-favored to start with, and later hideously scarred by smallpox. Short, but immensely wide and thick, he had a neck and shoulders that would flatter an ox, and his fancy tailoring could not conceal the barrel-like bulge of his chest, yet his hips and waist were trim. Darina’s praise of his wrestling skills was believable.
She sank into a curtsey. Wulf bowed low, sweeping the tiles with his bonnet, and then stood with his eyes lowered because staring at royalty was forbidden. But the prince’s shoes had platform soles to make him seem taller, and staring at those was probably even more discourteous. He raised his gaze to the prince’s huge chest, decorated with gem-studded orders and a sash of St. Vaclav like Anton’s.
“Checking on the morgue, my dear?” The prince tittered. “Is it true his toes are turning black and… Oh, what have we here? Head up, lad. Let’s have a look at you.”
If he did not melt as his mistress had predicted, Prince Konrad certainly gave Wulf his full attention. Thus might a man study a stud horse.
“Darina’s taken up pimping for us,” said one of the fops, raising a laugh.
“Rough stuff from the stables,” said another, getting another one.
The worst part of having a fair complexion was blushing, and Wulf felt his face turn scarlet from his collarbones to his scalp. He heard some sniggers and murmurs of appreciation as the sycophants waited for their leader’s verdict.
“Turn around,” said the prince.
Wulf turned his back and folded his arms. He heard a few angry mutters.
“All the way,” Konrad said. “Yes, very pretty. You must bring him along to the party tonight, my love. We’ll get Augustin to try him out. What d’yu say, Gus?”
“Jozef has more experience than me at breaking in wild stock, sire.”
The prince sniggered. Even the youths-at-arms in the background were leering. But the mood must be about to change, and Wulf was praying hard that he would be able to keep his slippery temper under control.
“What’s your name, boy?”
For the first time Wulf looked his future king straight in the eye. “Wulfgang Magnus, Your Highness.”
Now it was the prince’s turn to redden. “Another of that Dobkov litter?”
The Magnus temper slipped another notch. “I have the honor to be the count of Cardice’s youngest brother, sire.”
“So you think it’s your turn now? You’re so young we’ll have to make you a duke!”
The pack bayed with laughter at the royal wit.
Konrad glared at his mistress. “Where did you find this knave?”
Wulf braced himself for more devilry. He was not disappointed.
“In the stables, sire, as Lord Jozef said. He’s out of work since his brother left, and the Magnuses are such renowned equestrians that I thought that you might wish to appoint this one master of horse, since that office is currently vacant. Or you might have other uses for him.”
“Yes, I might. I’ll have him stuffed and mounted.” Konrad turned his snarl on Wulf. “Your damned-to-hellfire brother caused the deaths of many good men with his insane showing off. I’ll set you up as a memorial to them.” He moved as if to leave, but Darina was not done yet.
“Come, sire, it’s hardly fair to blame young Wulfie for that. He was telling me just moments ago that he witnessed the accident at Chestnut Hill last week and he doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. It was a very straightforward jump for a good horseman, he says.”
The prince’s ugly face seemed to swell. He turned his rage back on Wulf. “Straightforward, you say?”
Wulf was exhausted, and his temper had long since escaped and flown far away. He shrugged. “Dead easy. I could do it with my hands behind my back.”
This time the silence lasted a dozen heartbeats and it was the one called Augustin who broke it. “A wager, sire?”
Several voices echoed the words.
Konrad liked that idea. He nodded and showed an indifferent set of teeth in a crocodile smile. “You would perform that jump on a bet?”
Wulf tried for an even more insulting shrug. “Wrug201hatever pleases Your Highness.”
“Tomorrow we shall be hunting not far from Chestnut Hill. Meet us there an hour before sunset and show us. With your hands behind your back?”
“Balance the stakes, sire. My horse is all I own in the world.” He would have to steal one of Anton’s. “I shall be gambling its life as well as my own. For what?”
“Five gold florins?”
A few onlookers whistled at such reckless betting.
“I may be only an esquire, sire, but my name is as old as yours. Magnuses risk their lives for honor, not gold. Make me the master of horse, and yes, you can tie my hands behind my back.”
The master of horse was the third-ranking officer of the kingdom. The title was hereditary, so he was asking for the impossible.
“There’s a whipping post downstairs, sire,” said one of the flunkeys. “May I lay on the first fifty lashes?”
“But I get to brand him,” said another.
Wulf was well aware that even an esquire might be flogged for such insolence to royalty, and by this time a commoner would be well on his way to losing his tongue as well. He could escape through limbo if they tried to use violence on him. That would shatter the first commandment, but by now he didn’t care a spit.
“The Magnuses do have spirit, sire,” Darina said nervously.
“Tomorrow, one hour before sunset,” Konrad squeaked, and strode off at pace that was almost a run. His entourage lurched into motion behind him. Wulf noticed several winks and grins being directed at Darina. None seemed to be intended for him, fortunately. He tried some deep breaths to calm his fury.
“Just what was all that in aid of?” he demanded. She had deliberately provoked that confrontation, and he couldn’t see why.
“Don’t ask me!” she said furiously. “Why did you lip him like that?”
Because the royal turd had called the Magnuses a litter. Wulf didn’t answer.
She said, “If you really do let them tie your hands, then there won’t be any doubt that you’re using talent. You’ll be breaking the first commandment to powder.”
“You don’t imagine I have any intention of turning up? To perform like a juggler for that bunch of daffodils?”
Konrad might be as celibate and virtuous as a saint, but he posed as an effemid aturning upnate lecher. No real man would serve such an ambiguous jackanapes or be seen within a league of him.
They turned the corner and almost collided with another procession, this time entirely female. The leader was young and soberly dressed in dove gray. She clasped a missal in both hands and kept her eyes sedately lowered, but she wore a tiara, and must be Princess Laima. She was followed by a couple of ladies-in-waiting of about her own age, and three much older nuns.
Darina stepped aside and curtseyed. Wulf repeated his floor-sweeping bow. The princess spared them one very fast glance and then dropped her gaze t
o the tiles again, pacing on by, no doubt heading for an evening visit to her dying grandfather.
“Friendly little miss,” Wulf remarked softly after the parade had safely vanished around the corner. Of course, Darina was a fallen woman and he was dressed like a laborer.
“She’s twice the man her brother is.”
He laughed, and suddenly the rage drained out of him and he remembered how tired he was. When they reached her door, he opened it for her. “Thank you for a fascinating evening, my lady. But you will have to solve Crown Prince Konrad’s problems without me. I must consider my reputation.”
He stepped into limbo.
Now what? The pale nothingness of limbo seemed very restful after palace, castle, and battlefield; it might be a good place to indulge in that sleep time he needed so much. No one could disturb him there. Or could they? More than anything else, he needed instruction in the uses of talent. He knew where to go for that.
CHAPTER 25
Two days ago, Otto had waited on Cardinal Zdenek in his office, but in daylight. By night the place seemed airless and more menacing. The luxuries of gilt and mirrors, of rich drapes and crystal chandeliers, all failed to lighten it or soften its vaunting arrogance. The scraggy old man was leaning forward on his throne, glaring furiously, with little red patches of rage glowing on the milky skin above his white beard and long yellow teeth. He held out his ring for them to kiss-earl first, then baron.
And he left them both on their knees. Otto held a title created back in the twelfth century, and Zdenek was the son of a butcher. Anton belonged to the premier chivalric order in the kingdom, but this glorified upstart clerk considered that he had put him there, so he could treat both noblemen like errant schoolboys called before their magister. Worse, he was deliberately humbling them in front of a witness, for when Otto risked a backward glance, he confirmed that the friar was still present, now seated at a desk behind the door.
“What does it take, Count Anton, to win your loyalty?” the old scoundrel raged, snarling down at them, spraying spit. “Five days ago I created you out of nothing. I found you in an old woman’s bed, swiving her for money, and I made you one of the wealthiest landowners in the country. I deeded you one of the finest count"0em"down at thies in the land. I promoted you from cannon fodder to the highest order of chivalry and gave you the hand of a great and beautiful heiress, whom you have now deflowered and plan to hand down to your juvenile brother so he can have his turn with her. What thanks is that?”