Here and Now tsops-1

by Henry Lion Oldie

  “A spur? A gauntlet?!” laughs Lubina with the foreign, stolen laughter. “Hell no! According to the ancient rules I take for myself all the armour of my rival! Order to deliver it into my tent!”

  He pulls his helm off, grinning victoriously in the face of the bewildered marshal.

  It’s over.

  The boy has learnt a proper lesson.

  “...victory! I beat him! There’ll be no war!”

  “Jendrus! You’re a hero! Let me kiss you!”

  “Lukerda, remember about decencies! I can’t allow...”

  “No, he’s a hero! He’s a hero all the same! Only... why are we still sitting in this cellar?!”

  “Because our most respected chieftain made a mistake. The real commander Rava would never do it.”

  “Do what?”

  Jendrich was blinking, dumbfounded, looking around him. He was still there, in the tournament field, looking at the defeated Siegfried, grinning in the marshal’s face...

  Giacomo Seingalt’s voice sounded surprisingly simple; neither mocking nor the habitual old man’s sarcasm. Only sincere regret: “The knight Lubina would not set his eyes upon Siegfried’s personal armour. Of course, how would you know that the tradition of taking the armour of defeated rivals doesn’t actually exist for at least forty years? Now the winner is satisfied with only an honourable trophy. To act in a different way means humiliating a defeated rival in public...”

  The old man thrust his long hand into a heap of stuff behind him with a wry face. With a nasty gnash he extracted a cuirass to which there were fixed by clasps disproportionately big spaulders with crests.

  “Presses on my side,” he explained, though nobody asked him a thing. “I do understand you, Jendrich. If you were tempted by this quite unassuming armour, what to say about that of the Maintz heir... For all that, you’re a robber, don’t take this for rudeness. It just didn’t occur to you that you had insulted Siegfried deadly. Formally it isn’t forbidden by tournament rules. But... The future margrave hasn’t forgiven you his public shame. Or rather, hasn’t forgiven it to the knight Lubina Rava, the commander of the prince of Opolie. I’m very sorry, Jendrich. No, I’m really sorry. You have almost made it...”

  Distressing silence set in the cellar.

  “Damn, but I’m!.. I...” Jendrich turned away gloomily, hiding his face.

  It was heard how in the tavern above the Maintz men were bawling a song.

  “Well, I think it’s my turn now,” the dependant made himself smile. “There is another way. Would the old margrave live longer... The beloved son had certainly poisoned his father or had organized his assassination. But he who is warned is armed. Ah, my friends, what hasn’t old Giacomo Seingalt happened to be! If you only knew! But a margrave – never. It would be a sin not to use such an opportunity. I’m ready, Martzin. Should I clap my hands too?”

  The bony, still strong fingers reached for the image of a king.

  The image’s head was broken.

  That morning Dietrich von Maintz woke up with the feeling of close death – a feeling as sharp as the assassin’s stiletto.

  For the first time in seventeen years of calm and welfare.

  I’ll be murdered today, thought Dietrich with a frightful clearness. I’ll be murdered today, destroyed, eliminated, and young Siegfried will receive the crown of the Maintz Mark. The heir will become margrave, while I’ll become dust. Nothing. A vague memory, a ghost of the past. I don’t want to die. Don’t want to. Maybe it’s all because of the dream. It was the dream that had awakened in his soul a presentiment of death. At night Dietrich von Maintz had seen events that he would prefer not to recall. To forget forever. And in any case, not to resurrect them at night.

  The rout of Maintz by the troops of Vitold the Bastard, duke of Henning.

  It happened long ago – the heir Siegfried was five years old then. This... actually, what did it matter – where, when and how? Quite enough that it had once happened. And for long years it disinclined him from coveting his neighbours’ lands. Tamed his pride, moderated greed and vanity.

  At times the margrave felt grateful to the duke Vitold for the lesson. And now...

  “You’ll be murdered,” whispered the secret guest that had settled in his soul without asking for permission. “Be careful, old man.”

  I’ll be careful, vowed Dietrich, answering the call. I’m not an old man. I won’t be murdered.

  While making his morning toilet, he was watching the servants attentively. No one can be trusted. No one. Washing himself in a silver tub – the margrave had always been cleanly – Dietrich broke an arm of a young maid servant who was pouring hot water from a jug. It seemed to him that the maid was hiding a dagger in the jug, preparing to strike him in the back. The victim was sobbing, rolling up her eyes; bodyguards that had rushed into the bedroom were exchanging perplexed glances, while the margrave himself was soothing his heart with difficulty. His body was yet going strong – the maid’s elbow had cracked as a spill in skilful fingers, – but his heart was too worn out for such outbursts.

  No, I won’t be murdered.

  He drove the bodyguards out. Out!!! Sapheads, duffers, unable to distinguish an assassination attempt from the ordinary lord’s wrath... Then, after some considering, he called for the captain of the guard and ordered him to replace the guardians. The captain, a smart man, didn’t show interest in the cause of the disfavour. He just asked: “With whom to replace?” “Can I trust him?!” thought Dietrich, looking at the captain’s face. “He seems to be loyal. He’s got knight spurs from my hands. He dreams of barony. Or is he already suborned?! Looks straight, without blinking. Black eyes... black eyes, those of a sorcerer!..” The margrave ordered to bring him the list of the Gold Griffon squad and poked randomly at five names. This is safer. Fortuity will prevent them from doing what they’ve planned.

  Who are “they”?

  He didn’t know.

  You’ll be murdered today, old man. No, I won’t.

  “Provide the maiden with dowry,” ordered the margrave without looking at the maid who had fainted away. “On the cost of my treasury. Send her my private doctor. Let him not leave her till tomorrow. And marry... Marry her off.”

  The doctor – that’s right. Let him not leave her. And not approach me.

  Doctors are the main danger.

  His heart calmed down and was beating evenly and strongly. Pretended to be young.

  At breakfast Dietrich demanded to bring the chief cook into the hall. Let him stand near the table and taste all the dishes served for the beloved lord. Truffles. Deer meat. Hare pâté. Fruits. Wine. Pheasants in honey. Quails. Fish. Bread. In the end of the breakfast the cook, ready to fall on the floor any minute, was driven away by his hands. The margrave himself, satisfied with a piece of fresh bread and a goblet of spring water, was waiting for a long time: was it poisoning? It turned out to be indigestion. The cook had overeaten. Pheasants with fruits, pâté, steamed pike-fish... a bit too heavy. His wife permitted herself a surprised smile, but having caught her husband’s severe glance she halted. The heir, young Siegfried, pretended nothing was amiss.

  Heirs are the most dangerous.

  I won’t be murdered.

  Here and now – I won’t.

  Dietrich refused to go hunting. And for half a day was cursing himself for it. Yes, during the hunt it’s easy to shoot in the back. Or a horse would slip, throwing a rider into a ravine. But in the castle it’s not harder to strike with a dagger from behind a curtain. He was sitting in his room gloomily, staring at the wall and repeating as a spell, as a prayer: “Won’t be murdered. Won’t be murdered. Won’t...”

  Thin blood veins were protruding on his cheeks.

  A lump in the throat.

  Hard to breathe. I have to breathe. I’ll remain alive.

  He was looking at the yard slabs from out the window, at the faraway garden where there were walking his wife and daughters. He wanted to join them. He wanted to go hunting. He wanted to thr
ow away the suffocation of fear – but danger awaited him at every step. Hold on, old man! I’m not an old man!!! At least one day... Why one day?! I’m still going strong! You’ll die! I’ll live long!..

  He came to the door and called in a loud voice: “Priest! Call for my confessor!” When father Jeronim had arrived – without opening the lock he ordered the guard to search the priest. Zealously, bastards! There were no arms found with the cleric, but the margrave, having let the confessor in, withdrew with his own hands a rope that the monk used to girdle himself with. A rope can be thrown upon your neck quietly. During a prayer. Look how thick it is! He’ll strangle a man without batting an eyelid, this hypocrite...

  “I wish to confess, father!”

  “That’s a good deed, my son...”

  During the confession the confessor was nervous, glancing every now and then with fear at the excited margrave. Dietrich felt angry, stumbled over his words, trying, on the one hand, to prepare himself for possible death, cleansing his soul by confession, and on the other – to look after the most suspicious priest; and eventually he kicked father Jeronim out.

  The day seemed endless. Devils were knocking in the left temple, turning the world scarlet as Hell’s flame. To sign an abdication in his son’s favour? To save himself? Or is it just an illusory shield, ready to crack at the first push?! Live! I want to live!.. Every rustle in a corridor threatened to be an assault.

  When in the evening somebody knocked at the door – gently, cautiously! – Dietrich von Maintz seized his grandfather’s flambard from the wall. Pressed himself into the corner, his back to the wall. The back should be secure. The sword is a bit too heavy, this two-handed one has always been too massive for the undersized margrave, but with a blade of such length it’s easier to keep conspirators at bay. Till help comes.

  Help – for me? For them?!

  Hold on, old man! I won’t be murdered...

  An arbalest bolt struck the window. Thrust under the shoulder blade, penetrating the heart with red-hot iron. There, where the secret guest was tossing, bewildered – why? how is that? – crying out persistently: “Hold on, old man! Hold on!”

  I hold on, Dietrich von Maintz wanted to answer.

  I hold at the hilt... at the curtain... at the wall...

  It’s over. I don’t hold on any more.

  ...Young Siegfried, in the nearest future – the new lord of the Maintz Mark, – was looking at his father’s body. What a pity. He had wanted so much to boast of his hunting trophies, in spite of the late hour. After death his father became as he used to be: imperious and confident. Quite not the man he had been today: cowardly, frightened, jerking little man.

  Outside the window a pigeon was cleaning its feathers – the one that a minute ago had struck its breast at the glass.

  “...A-a!.. a..”

  Giacomo Seingalt was gulping air convulsively with his mouth. The old man’s face became crimson and seemed black.

  “Good Lord! Giacomo, I beg you! Martzin, save him! Save him!”

  “Hush! For all the saints’ sake, hush!”

  “Calm down, Lukerda. Look, he’s already better...”

  “W-water...”

  “Sorry, there’s no water. But here’s the wine...”

  Giacomo was drinking straight from the mouth of a braided bottle, swallowing convulsively, jerking the gristly Adam’s apple, spilling the wine on his clothes. Finally he breathed out heavily, wheezing: “F-fuh! It eased off...”

  “You have tried!” Lukerda was nearly crying. “You’ve tried so hard, poor man!..”

  “And for all that you didn’t sign an abdication, old man! Damn it, this was a real hell! I would have kicked the bucket at midday, probably...”

  “It’s pity your attempt has failed, mister Seingalt. But not everything is lost yet. I think I’ll take the risk...”

  “No! Now it’s my turn!” The girl’s face was glowing with resoluteness and righteous indignation. “You men are never able to bring anything to a close! You should just assassinate the margrave Siegfried – and there’ll be no war! Start it, Martzin. I know what to do!”

  On the board a carved queen moved, as if in response.

  From the draught, apparently.

  “Today I’ll perform a feat”, vowed Belinda van Dayk.

  The daughter of the burgomaster of the free city of Holne, doomed to vegetate miserably with the tambour and the gossips of other girls, she was secretly always certain: the time for a feat would come. A day would come, majestic and bright, which would allow her to step up, to stand abreast the heroines of old, leaving her trail on the steps of existence. So sang troubadours whom Belinda was ready to listen to day and night. So wrote poets whom she received affably and fed, in spite of her niggard father’s grumbling. Oh, father! This worthless, mean man, this pile of lard, this mount of fat, caring more for his bulging purse than for a decent place in the descendants’ memory – he refused to defend Holne! He threw into prison a small group of true patriots who were ready to die on the native walls! Together with others similar to him he opened the gates to Siegfried von Maintz and yielded to the enslaver, holding the keys of the gates on the pillow!

  Interesting, how such a daughter was born of such father?!

  What a pity that the mother died without confiding this secret to her daughter...

  Belinda looked around stealthily. In the large city hall a feast was held. At the tables, mixed up with the Maintz usurpers, there were sitting scared members of the city council, syndics of guilds, judges and other respectable citizens. Many of them were choking on their food, terrified by the phantom of possible slaughter. At the head of the central table, in an armchair with a high back decorated with the coat of arms of Holne, there was sitting none other than the margrave Siegfried, surveying the hall with a bored glance. Having remained in light armour, the margrave was a personification of the valour and belligerence of his ancestors –only his peevishly protruding lip gave his young face a touch of vulgarity. Cold, still – snake-like! – Siegfried’s eyes became warmer only in one case: when they would rest on herself, Belinda van Dayk, purposely dressed today in her lowest-cut dress.

  Yes, they became warmer.

  Belinda felt it with her skin.

  Hot. The guffaw of drunken men is confusing. The feat had been imagined differently: more beautiful, perhaps? However, true heroines don’t choose but act. Today at dawn Belinda had understood it once and for all. A secret guest that had settled in her soul whispered to her what should be done.

  Yes, just so.

  “Then Judith said to them with a loud voice, Praise, praise God, praise God, I say, for he hath not taken away his mercy from the house of Israel, but hath destroyed our enemies by mine hands this night. So she took the head out of the bag, and shewed it, and said unto them, behold the head of Holofernes, the chief captain of the army of Assur, and behold the canopy, wherein he did lie in his drunkenness; and the Lord hath smitten him by the hand of a woman. As the Lord liveth, who hath kept me in my way that I went, my countenance hath deceived him to his destruction, and yet hath he not committed sin with me, to defile and shame me!”

  “Feast on, gentlemen!” The margrave Siegfried stood up. For a moment the hall became silent, though the margrave hadn’t raised his voice at all. Just that some cold flew between the tables. “Feast on, feel at ease! Excuse me for leaving you in such early a time...”

  The hour has come, Belinda understood.

  Here and now.

  She raised her eyes at the margrave. Smiled – experiencedly and alluringly. Now to sip out of the tin goblet. To lick the lips with the tongue. Slower. Still slower. These cowards have hidden their wives and daughters. The cowards are afraid for their cowardly women. I’m alone here. Still better. Still easier.

  “You are leaving us, my knight? What a pity...”

  A pause.

  A carefully calculated one, mellow as old sherry.

  “And I’ve supposed I won’t spend this night alone
...”

  In his bedroom there surely can be found a sword. Or a dagger. Blood will not spatter – it would be ridiculous to perform a feat in a dress soiled in red. And in the morning Belinda will go out to the entire city holding a bag with the enslaver’s head. At the picture “Judith and Holofernes” by the crazy painter Fontanalli everything is real: beautiful and exalted. Without any stains of blood and a cyanotic face colour of the deceased. And there shall peal the bells of the Saint Johann’s cathedral, and troubadours shall praise the feat of the proud maiden, and the Lord shall not permit sin to defile and shame me, for the Lord is always on the side of virtue!

  “I won’t disappoint you, my darling,” Siegfried von Maintz was looking at the burgomaster’s daughter affably. The stupid chubby girl had dressed up in the most stupid dress he’d ever seen. “Gunter, the charming fräulein doesn’t want to sleep alone. She’s cold and lonely. Have you understood me, Gunter? And tell your lads I’ll order to hang all your hundred, one by one, if the charming fräulein is left dissatisfied. Have you understood me correctly, my loyal, my clever Gunter?”

  Gunter von Dragmain, the captain of guard of the young margrave, always understood his lord immediately.

  “...No! Don’t you touch me! A-a-a!...”

  “Calm down, my dear. It’s all right. You’re here, with us! It’s not real. Everything’s all right...”

  “Oh yes, all right to the last degree...”

  “Dirty, sweaty... Beasts!”

  “Hush...”

  “How dared he! Scoundrel!”

  “Hush! They’ll hear...”

  Lukerda shrivelled by the chest, shuddering with soundless sobbing. Giacomo, sitting near her, was gently stroking the maiden’s dishevelled hair, trying to soothe her.

  “Martzin, was it you that stopped the game? This time everything ended much faster...”