by Dave Duncan
With a final “Please have the lads see to Morningstar,” he headed for the stairs. He trotted up two steep flights and explored a gloomy, squeaky-floored corridor, passing images of a bell, a fish, and a snail, until he found a door with a horse on it. The room was modest in size and cramped by the presence of a single overlarge bed. Oh, Madlenka! But it should be quiet on this side.
Cardinal d’Estouteville was engaged in conversation with a man, probably a young man, from the sound of his voice, but the cardinal’s eyesight was so blurred that Wulf could make out no details. Whatever they were speaking, it did not sound like Italian. It might be French, but if it was, and the other man was who he thought he might be, then it was likely Norman French they were using, and that would be very different from the French of Paris. Not that Wulf could understand a word of either.
He stripped, laid out his Italian outfit on the covers, and set to work to ensorcel it. After a few hastily corrected misjudgments, he made the trunk hose a uniform pale gray and the doublet and coat a somber blue of modest cut and sensible sleeves. When he had dressed again, he was a stylish Jorgarian gentleman.
He still could not Look in on Madlenka. Vlad was stretched out on the bed and staring at the canopy, while Otto gazed fixedly out the window. He went to them.
Otto spun around. “Thank the Lord! You’re safe?”
“So far,” Wulf said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Gallant had fallen and Anton was wounded?”
His brother sighed and avoided his eyes. d his ey#x201C; Because there was nothing you could do. Rumors of Satanism are flying, Wulf. People suspect the Vranovs more than us, but the bishop set up a vigil of two priests at all times in Anton’s room. You could not have meddled this time. They caught him in the street, without a helmet. He took such a terrible cut to the head… You saved his life twice. You have nothing to repent.”
Wulf nodded. It was too late to explain that he had healed Countess Edita in that same room without entering it. Otto’s decision made sense, but the failure would haunt Wulf for years. If he had years.
“What’s your news, Wolfcub?” Vlad growled.
“Nothing much. I am Sir Wulfgang Magnus, the crown prince’s master of horse. I am on my way to Rome to meet with Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville, to negotiate the marriage of Princess Laima, and the Scarlet Spider expects me to rescue his castle from Vranov. Tonight there is going to be a Walpurgis Night party of all the best Satanists in Europe, to which I am invited but from which I may never return.”
“Glad to hear that one of us is still able to hold his head up,” Vlad growled.
“It may be higher yet if it ends on a pike,” Wulf said. “How in hell did you lose the most impregnable castle in Christendom?”
“Gross fornicating incompetence!” Vlad roared. “I made the worst mistake in warfare-I counted on the enemy doing what I wanted him to do! Vranov had been told the river had stopped running, and he could confirm that. His allies were beaten and he had nothing to gain by continuing his rebellion. If he was in any sense sane, he would be halfway home to Woda by now. I went to bed. I woke up with a sword at my throat.”
“You didn’t allow for talent? Sorcery?”
The big man nodded miserably. “I had set guards on the gates, but they must have been as drunk as lords. All the church bells were already ringing, so there was no way to sound the alarm; the whole town was drunk by then. The Satanists brought Vranov’s men right into the keep, I think. They beat us from the inside out.”
Vlad was obviously crushed by his failure. The first commandment forbade such trickery, but once again Vranov had broken the rules.
“I think we can sort it out. What Speaking has done can be undone by Speaking.” Wulf had an appointment to keep. He was also famished. “I must go.”
“God be with you, Brother,” Otto said formally. He was deliberately avoiding emotional farewells, and probably that was wise.
***
Back at the inn, yesterday’s Brother Daniel, the younger, thinner one, was sitting on the edge of the bed with a document case beside case behim. His head jerked up as if he had been close to falling asleep.
Wulf’s dreams of food faded. “Long hours?”
“Thirty hours a day, eight days a week,” the friar said ruefully. “You are doing well, Sir Wulfgang. The Spider is not easily impressed and rarely gives his trust.”
“The Greeks said we should not judge a man until we know how he dies.”
The friar conceded the point with a sigh. “And that is especially true of Speakers. Open the way, please.”
Wulf extended his hand.
Daniel frowned and then gripped his wrist.
Wulf led him into limbo and closed the gate. “How far does this contract differ from the terms of the Frenchman’s last offer, do you know?”
“Very little. My brother took the Spider’s dictation and wrote the draft for him to edit; I just copied it out in fair. His Eminence altered the order of the clauses, which makes comparison harder. The only change I noticed was omission of a provision that the couple will reside in Jorgary. There’s no prohibition against them choosing to do so, though.”
Except the cardinal’s future displeasure.
“And the dowry kickbacks?”
The friar smiled. “He was quite generous-for him. He rarely settles for less than one hundred per centum. A draft on the Fugger bank for one-quarter of the amount will be supplied as soon as the terms are accepted. The rest will be due on the wedding day, but I am authorized to mention that there may be delays in payments. Likely no one will ever know who pockets what.”
So goes the world. “Then let us see if it is acceptable.”
“Why should it not be?”
“Because the omission you noticed was deliberate. Cardinal d’Estouteville is anxious that his nephew live in Jorgary. Cardinal Zdenek is anxious that he not. Please do not draw attention to the change and pray fervently that the Roman scribes are less observant than you.”
Wulf opened a gate into d’Estouteville’s study. There was no one present.
D’Estouteville was asleep somewhere. So there would be no immediate decision. An old man deserved his nap. The fire had been banked and a warm sun shone beyond the windows. Brother Daniel wandered over there to look out at the city. Wulf eyed the books heaped on the big table and wondered if he dare pry.
Before his conscience and curience andosity could decide on a winner, the door opened to admit two priests, so mismatched that they might have been chosen for comic relief: one tall and cadaverous, the other short and pudgy. The first was a workaday, as was the servant who followed them in. The plump priest was Father Giulio, the Speaker who had fetched Wulf from Cardice to Rome. He wasted no time on formalities.
“Brother,” Giulio said, “we have been sent to examine the documents you bring. We assume that you will wish to be present while we do so.” Taking the friar’s consent for granted, he turned to Wulf. “And I am told that you, my son, have had no chance to eat yet today. If you go with this man, you will be fed.”
Obviously a very detailed watch had been kept over him for the last twenty-four hours, but food was an irresistible offer. He accepted, following the servant out and along a corridor with walls painted in a jarring red above oak wainscot. Their destination was a small, stark room containing only a rectangular table and six chairs. Most likely it was designed for meetings, and it was easy to imagine clerks spreading their exchequer cloth there to tally money. At the moment it was being fitted out as a private dining room, with four men laying out dishes and jabbering among themselves in fast Italian, but never addressing him. He was given water to wash his hands, and offered dishes to accept or refuse. Once his platter was loaded and his goblet filled, the servants departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dishes for seconds. The fare was cold and largely unfamiliar: rice and pasta, two fish of unknown species, roast goose, beans, and fruit.
He had eaten little when his appetite was seriously wounde
d by the arrival of an elongated, skeletal Dominican. He closed the door in silence and came on silent bare feet to the table, taking the place opposite Wulf. He made no sound even as he moved the stool on the tiled floor. Of course he was Brother Luigi, prior of the Roman Inquisition. He rested his forearms on the table and stared across at Wulf with the austere, accusatory face of a dying Christ, even to the glowing nimbus, lacking only the crown of thorns. He was younger than Wulf remembered.
He did not speak.
Such tricks were intended to frighten Wulf into speaking first, so he carried on with his meal, however hard it was to summon up saliva. He could probably magic enough spit to drown a horse, but then his own nimbus would brighten and give him away. He avoided the drier dishes and concentrated on the fish, which was salty and came with sauce.
“You commune with Satan, Wulfgang.” Luigi’s voice was soft and seductively gentle.
Wulf finished chewing and swallowed. “No I don’t.”
“Then how did you come here from Jorgary today?”
Another mouthful. Eating did give one time to think between comments.
“The same way you left the cardinal’s room yesterday.”
“Even if that were true, it would no, it wout excuse you, Wulfgang. I have ordered a woman’s nipples ripped off with pincers. If you did such a thing, you would be hanged. I did it for the woman’s salvation and the glory of God. I did it in the name of, and with the blessing of, Holy Mother Church.”
There was no way to argue with such madness. The Church defined good and evil, and to even question its definitions was heresy. Wulf carried on eating, and now his saliva flowed more freely. Anger worked better than fear.
“Tell me about Father Azuolas,” Luigi murmured, his voice still sweet as a viol.
Well, Wulf could argue that he had merely come to the aid of Magnus when he was physically assaulted by two men, both much larger than he. He could assert that his shot had only wounded the Dominican, and either he or Brother Lodnicka could have healed him, had Lodnicka not rejected Wulf’s protests and insisted on trying to subdue him. By the time the fight was over, Azuolas had been beyond saving.
Such excuses would be admissions of guilt.
He continued eating.
Luigi continued to stare at him with very dark, somber eyes and an expression of deep sorrow. “You have broken the first commandment.”
Wulf acknowledged that remark with a frown while he chewed. When he had swallowed, he said, “I do honor the Lord. I try to obey His commandments, yet I sin, like all men.”
“I do not mean the first commandment of the ten given to Moses, but the devil’s first commandment.”
“What’s that?”
“That you must use the powers he gives you in secret.”
Any response to that would damn a man. Denial was useless when mere suspicion allowed the use of torture, and confessions extracted by torture were accepted as true. Accusation was as good as proof.
Luigi let the silence drag on a long time before he spoke again. “It is possible that the Holy Father will give you absolution today, Wulfgang.”
“Bravo il papa!”
“And perhaps even an indulgence, also, to remit your penance. He may not, of course. But even if he does, he will not abso lve your future sins. Can you go and sin no more, as Our Lord commanded the woman taken in adultery?”
“Could you?”
“We are discussing the peril to your soul, not mine.”
“I see you love your fellow men, Brother. But your love is so overwhelming that it would destroy them restroy tather than tolerate any deviation from perfection. I don’t think you understand what love truly is.”
Wulf stood up and stepped to the water basin to rinse his hands. He had taken the edge off his hunger and would have to be satisfied by that. What Luigi was hinting, but would never put in words, was that even if the pope absolved him, the Inquisition would not. It would pursue him relentlessly, every day of his life, until it could find cause to charge him with sorcery, and his death for that would avenge Father Azuolas.
The friar rose, fired with a righteousness so intense that it could admit no dissent. “Go and fly, little falcon,” he whispered. “Soar and circle as you will, but one day you will stoop, as falcons do, and then our snares will have you. We will catch your jesses then, falcon, and haul you down.” He turned and padded to the door.
As soon as it closed behind him, Wulf went back to his seat and resumed his meal.
CHAPTER 44
Father Giulio and Brother Daniel were bent over the table, apparently comparing two documents word by word. There was no sign of the taller priest, or Prior Luigi. Or Madlenka. Cardinal d’Estouteville was slumped in his favorite chair, looking weary, and older than he had yesterday.
Wulf knelt to kiss his ring, then waited in vain for the order to rise.
“You truly are a remarkably effective young man, Sir Wulfgang.”
“Your Eminence is kind to say so.” He was starting to believe it himself.
“We are impressed,” the old man mused. “He has obtained almost exactly the betrothal terms we required. He won a knighthood and the trust of his prince, and he persuaded the Scarlet Spider to change his mind for the first time in decades. And all within the time limit we set for him-which, frankly, we did not dream he could meet.”
Puzzled, but forced to assume he was still being addressed, Wulf said, “Happy to serve Your Eminence. I am free to go?”
“Oh, no!” The cardinal’s voice sharpened. The half-blind eyes looked down at him for the first time. “‘Almost exactly’ is not exactly ‘exactly.’ Zdenek’s draft proposes sending the girl to France instead of receiving my nephew there. Whose idea was that?”
So the change had been noticed and Wulf had failed. His chances had never been good. “I honestly believe that these are the best terms that-”
“Answer my question!”
Wulf would never see Madlenka again, for she could give Samson back his hair, and Samson in his strength was too effective to be trusted. It would be safer for all concerned, Church and state, to dispose of him. Light the faggots! Make him a salutary example of the hazards of Satanism.
Magnuses did not plead for mercy.
“My idea. Granted Crown Prince Konrad is not the most promising clay from which to fashion a great king, but he does have the right to wear the crown of his forefathers. He deserves a chance to try.”
“You are saying that the presence of my nephew in Jorgary would imperil your future king? That my nephew would foment revolution to put himself on the throne instead?”
“The temptation would be there.”
“Opportunity!” d’Estouteville shouted. “The opportunity would be there. I want Louis to wear a crown, and I am not accustomed to being thwarted by apple-cheeked boys, Squire Wulfgang. You want to rule Jorgary yourself. You would make your prince a puppet and manipulate him by sorcery, bring back his wife and tweak the impotent pervert into siring a son-change his name, ban his orgies, make the people cheer, leave the Spider spinning webs into his dotage. God save King Whosis! You dare to pass moral judgment on me?”
Wulf had no defense against those charges. In the absence of defense, attack. “Since you mention morals, by what right did you bring me here? By what right did you abduct Countess Madlenka?”
“By what right do I hold back the Lord’s Dogs? Shall I call for Brother Luigi?”
Someone laughed. “That’s enough, both of you,” said a new voice.
Wulf glanced around and then jumped to his feet. He had not heard the newcomers enter, so they could not have come through the door. There was no doubt who the young man in front was-Wulf had seen his face on a miniature. They bowed to each other.
At the back, beyond the big table, was Sybilla, beaming with glee… And Madlenka, paler than usual but wearing an expression of unspeakable relief. Her eyes met Wulf’s and for a moment there was no one else in the world. The temptation to rush to her made h
im sway on his feet.
“Sir Wulfgang!” Louis of Rouen spoke as if he had said this before and not been heard. He both looked and sounded amused. “You may not have satisfied my uncle, but you have more than satisfied me.”
Hope sprang anew, like returning pain in a wound that had gone numb but might not be mortal after all. “You are gracious, my lord.”
“And you are dangerously ingenious!” He laughed. “My remorseless uncle there wanted to throw you to the Inquisition. I told him that I was more than happy to accept what you had made possible. Every night I dream of clasping your lovely little princess in my arms. I will ask only one favor.”
“If it lies within my power, it is granted.”
Louis smiled. Already he had registered as a very personable man. Therein lay his danger, of course. “Don’t be so hasty with promises! All I ask is that if your King Krystof does prove impossible-if revolution begins to bubble and you can no longer in good conscience support him-then I ask that you transfer your loyalty to his sister.”
If the new king had produced an heir by then, the child would take precedence, but Louis and Laima might very well be the best guardians available. The last few days had taught Wulf to take life as it came. “You have my word on it, my lord.”
“Give him his absolution, Uncle.”
D’Estouteville grunted, but he was holding back a smile. “Giulio?”
Father Giulio came forward with Brother Daniel at his heels. If those two large rolls under the priest’s arm were the betrothal contract, then they had sprouted several more seals since Wulf had last seen them. But first Giulio handed a smaller document to the cardinal.
“This is signed by the Holy Father,” d’Estouteville said. “And bears his seal. It absolves Wulfgang Magnus of all sins committed before this date. That would include any involvement in the death of Father Azuolas or any Satanic practices that might be charged against him.”