by Dave Duncan
“Within days,” the constable said. “He believes that his sources are trustworthy.”
“It is almost winter!”
“Wars can be fought in winter,” Vranov interjected. “I beg you to trust me in this, my lady. I have been fighting the Wends all my life. I have killed them with arrows and pikes and swords and roasted not a few of them. My spies insist that what is being planned now is no mere cattle raid. The Pomeranian army is moving down the Silver Road towards the border. Crews are strengthening bridges and repairing fords. Their vanguard may be here by Wednesday.”
Madlenka lifted her veil and looked around the worried faces. “Castle Gallant is unvanquishable! It is well-garrisoned now, with Captain Ekkehardt and his men here to help.”
“It has no guns worth the name,” the landsknecht said loudly. “Castles all over Europe hitherto deemed impregnable are crumbling like eggshells. England, France, Italy, Spain—all their rulers have been investing in bombards to knock down castle walls. Unruly barons are being brought to heel, for only kings and some dukes can afford artillery trains. Fortresses that have stood for a thousand years are being breached, like Constantinople. Your father should have set guns in the barbicans. I told him. He said maybe. He said next year.”
Kavarskas scowled at the interruption. “Our curtain wall could be badly damaged by guns, but it stands on the cliff edge, so no breech would be usable. But the barbicans are vulnerable. One shot can smash a gate to kindling.”
It was Vranov’s turn again. “This explains why the curse was laid upon your honored father and brother! The Wends’ Speakers have cut off Cardice’s head and left it leaderless.”
And Madlenka had assumed that her marriage prospects were all that mattered. What a fool she must have seemed to the seneschal! It was true that Vranov had fought the Wends for years. She had no proof that Father Vilhelmas had cursed her family; some Wend Speaker could have been to blame just as easily. Cardinal Zdenek had warned Petr about the Wends. Despite her dislike and distrust of the count, Havel Vranov would be an indispensable ally in a war with Pomerania.
She glanced at the seneschal on her left, but he was deep in thought, staring at the floor. The door opened and closed, and Bishop Ugne came shuffling in. He had shed his formal vestments in favor of simple robes and a wide tasseled hat; he waved everyone down as they started to rise.
“Do not stop for me. Carry on.” He came to a halt in the gap between Madlenka and Vranov. He was puffing as if he had been running, an unusual breach of dignity for him. “A quick update, please, and then carry on.”
“Count Vranov,” the constable said, “has intelligence that the Wends will attack us within days. Castle Gallant has withstood sieges for months in the past, but Duke Wartislaw has a cannon big enough to destroy our fortifications.”
“Has the king been informed?”
“I sent all my news to Mauvnik three days ago, Lord Bishop,” Vranov said. “But His Majesty cannot even give us an answer in time, let alone reinforcements. If we do nothing, his courier will find nothing left here except ruins and corpses.”
“You exaggerate!”
“Not at all. Duke Wartislaw has obtained a bombard, a monstrous iron tube twice as long as a man. They call it the Dragon. It is not as enormous as some the Turks used to take Constantinople, but it is big enough. It shoots balls bigger than a man’s head farther than our crossbows can send bolts. Once installed, it will demolish your barbican in a few hours.”
“A cleric should not argue military matters, but surely the debris will block the entrance?”
“The barbican will collapse, the Wends will storm the breach over the rubble, and Gallant will be overrun.”
“It is not quite hopeless,” Kavarskas said. “They can only come by the Silver Road. They can move their Dragon by boat to the end of the lake, at Long Valley. The Ruzena rises there, but is not navigable, so from there the gun must be drawn by oxcart. There are half a dozen places where we may be able to block them if we move fast enough.”
“Then why don’t you?” Madlenka demanded. Why waste time just talking?
“I certainly shall, now that I have heard His Lordship’s news,” Kavarskas replied in a tone normally used only to address tiresome infants. “But the Wends know all this as well as we do. They may have scouts very close to us already, watching the road.”
“You have an outpost at Long Valley, don’t you? To watch the road?”
He rapped the wall beside him with his hook to indicate impatience. “And so far the patrols have ridden out and back undisturbed. But the Long Valley post could be bypassed. If I were the Wend leader, I would already have moved a sizable force around the outpost and brought it close enough to keep a watch on the gorge. If the defenders sent out a force larger than the usual patrol—a force large enough to start demolishing bridges, for instance—then I would ambush it and destroy it. We lack the manpower to afford suicide missions, my lady. They must outnumber us twenty to one.”
He grew louder. “These are not our grandfathers’ days! We can no longer skulk behind the walls as they did, waiting until the enemy starves and goes away. If the Pomeranians invade, we shall need an active defense, with frequent sorties against their gun emplacement. But we will take monstrous losses if we charge along the road into their volleys, and Captain Ekkehardt and I between us have less than a thousand men.”
“You have guns!” the seneschal protested. “Captain Ekkehardt’s contract requires him to supply fifty armed arquebusiers.”
“Those I have,” the landsknecht said, “armed and well trained. But personal firearms cannot throw a ball as far as a cannon can. The Wends can emplace their bombard far outside our range.”
“And arquebuses are very slow to load,” the constable added. “An archer can get off several bolts in the time an arquebusier needs to fire one ball. That suffices if you are firing from fortifications, but is close to useless in the field.”
This was all so wrong! Madlenka and the seneschal should not be here at a council of war. It should be her father or Petr listening to the arguments and making decisions based on experience and training. These men did not care a spit for her opinions or her military judgment, and neither did she. Some vital words had not yet been spoken. She wanted to know the real reason she was here.
“Da!” Leonas shouted in his slurred voice. “Why does this horse got horns?” He was examining one of the tapestries.
“I’ll tell you later,” Vranov shouted back. “Now be quiet!”
“How soon can we expect aid from the king?” Bishop Ugne asked calmly.
The constable banged the wall angrily with his hook. “Weeks or months! He cannot yet have received my report of the count’s death. Count Vranov’s news about the Pomeranians will arrive a few days later. In another fortnight we may receive a note telling us that His Majesty expects us to fight to the last man. To muster the army, with all the food, equipment, and fodder it will need, will take months. Then it must march across moors, through forests, zigzag from ford to ford … When it eventually meets the Pomeranians, they may well be closer to Mauvnik than to Cardice.”
And by then Castle Gallant would be only a memory. Fortresses that refused to surrender were sacked. The conventions of war allowed the successful besiegers three days of unlimited rape, murder, pillage, and atrocity.
The bishop cleared his throat. “We appreciate your coming in person to warn us, Havel. It is time you told us your terms.”
Terms? But of course there would be terms.
Vranov looked up with a smile like a child caught stealing a cookie. “I offer an alliance. I can spare a hundred horses and a thousand men now, and twice that many as soon as I am sure that Wartislaw is not just feinting at Cardice to conceal a move on Pelrelm. I can also lend you a single cannon. It is nothing like his monster bombard, but if you can emplace your gun first, he will have to work much harder. I will supply a master gunner, fifty balls, and enough powder for them. If you can delay the Wends u
ntil the flux breaks out in their camp, or until winter strikes, or until King Konrad can bring up his army behind you, then you will have won. At least this time you will have won.”
“And why are you doing this, my lord?” Kavarskas inquired.
“Because you are my first line of defense. I hate the Wends and they hate me. If they force the Silver Road and occupy northern Jorgary, they can squeeze Pelrelm from both sides.”
Never mind Pelrelm! What of Castle Gallant? At best it would be besieged, meaning famine and suffering. No wonder Seneschal Jurbarkas was worried.
“But there is more,” said Bishop Ugne at Madlenka’s shoulder. “You want more than that.”
The count nodded, watching the seneschal, not looking up at the bishop standing over him. “Cardice provides board for my men, of course. And their women, if they bring them. Those are worthwhile extras for you, to make the men fight. Plus a thousand florins for the munitions and the rent of my gun and gunner. We can hammer out the details later.”
“Later is the time for action,” Ugne insisted. “Now is the time for talk.”
Madlenka had never had much respect for the bishop, but suddenly she was very grateful for his support. She could trust his motives in this crisis more than anyone else’s. He would be the last person to sell out to the Orthodox Wends.
The Hound shrugged. “You are right, my lord bishop. No disrespect to the constable or Captain Ekkehardt, but the strongest ally commands, always. I want Marijus here to be acting keeper of Castle Gallant. Just during the emergency, of course. Sir Marijus is the finest warrior among all my sons, well qualified to direct the defense of the castle.”
Marijus Vranov glanced around the group without speaking, nodding to each in turn; his eyes lingered longest on Madlenka. His nose was not as dominant as Havel’s and had been badly broken at some time in the past, but it must originally have had the same hooked shape. He was an imposing man, somehow, although he had yet to open his mouth. If she were to be forced into marriage with a Vranov, this one at least looked better than the first two suitors the count had produced—scars and all.
“Marijus has fought in Italy and France,” his father continued. “He is familiar with sieges and the use of guns. If he defends Castle Gallant against the coming attack, then he can reasonably petition the king for a permanent appointment. I will leave him behind as surety for my good faith while I rush home to make preparations.”
“It seems strange to me,” the bishop said, in his sonorous, trained voice, “to appoint a schismatic Orthodox commander to defend a Catholic country. You also want your pet priest to replace me as bishop, I assume?”
Religion could turn any discussion into a raging riot. Madlenka caught the seneschal’s eye and knew that he shared her foreboding.
“Not at all, Lord Bishop,” the count said calmly. “It is true that Father Vilhelmas is a friend of mine, but I remain a faithful son of Rome; my family likewise. You have my sacred word on it.” He crossed himself in the Catholic fashion, left to right. Marijus did the same.
The bishop beamed. “That is indeed welcome news. But then why did you bring Vilhelmas with you today, and the last time you visited Cardice? Why do you consort with a heretic cleric at all?”
The Hound chuckled. His air of confident good humor was probably designed to raise the bishop’s hackles. “Because he happens to be a relative of mine. A distant one, to be sure—about a third cousin, or so. My grandfather’s sister was captured in a raid from what is now Pomerania and carried off, never to return. Even so, Father Vilhelmas, her grandson, was born in wedlock and is an authentic, ordained priest. And yes, I allow him a small chapel in Pelrelm. Your archbishop is well aware of this, as you must be yourself, my lord bishop. The frontier within the hills is not as clearly defined as one might like, and many residents of my county prefer their traditional form of worship. My bishop turns a blind eye. The border is hard enough to defend without having religious differences fomenting discord and disloyalty.”
“And why do you bring him here, this Vilhelmas?”
The count’s tone hardened. “Because you have secret Orthodox supporters in Gallant also, Lord Bishop. If you do not know that, you should. Vilhelmas has only to walk your streets and he will be invited indoors to hear confessions.”
“Or celebrate mass?”
“Please!” The interruption came from Marijus Vranov, who had not previously spoken. “We are here to talk war, not religion.”
“My son is right,” the count said. “We must unite. The best strategy for all of us is to appoint him temporary keeper of Castle Gallant.”
The resulting silence dragged on until Kavarskas said, “The terms are generous. I would serve under Sir Marijus on his terms.”
Why shouldn’t he approve those terms? He had probably helped negotiate them behind everyone else’s back, and been well paid for it already. At least there had been no mention of anyone being married yet.
“That is all?” the seneschal said at last.
The Hound opened his mouth, but his son spoke first. “It is enough! We are both threatened by the barbarous, schismatic Wends, and we must unite.”
Captain Ekkehardt had hardly spoken since Madlenka joined the meeting, but now he did. “It is not enough for me. Our contract is for overwintering and garrison duty, not enduring a siege.”
Silence and shocked glances. Surely the landsknechte were essential for any hope of holding off a Pomeranian assault?
The seneschal smiled toothlessly. “I am familiar with the contract. There is provision for more money if you have to fight. If the Wends do appear, then Cardice will certainly honor the contract. We expect you to do likewise.”
“Not enough more,” the landsknecht growled.
“You are backing out?” The older man spluttered like a kettle suddenly coming to a boil. “This … this is treachery! And cowardice. No ruler in Europe will hire your troop after this, Captain.”
The mercenary’s face was too well hidden behind its bush of gold hair to show a change of color, but his eyes flashed and his beard bristled. “There is no contract! The signing was made by Petr Bukovany, who is dead. His father is dead. The contract has lapsed, and I will lead my men out tomorrow.”
“The contract was signed by the keeper on behalf of King Konrad.”
“I saw no royal writing, no royal seal. This castle is indefensible against guns. Here to be slaughtered we do not stay.”
“He just wants more money,” Marijus Vranov said. “How much is he being paid now?”
The seneschal said, “Ten florins a month now, rising to twenty as soon as an enemy appears.”
“That is generous for three hundred lances. How much more do you want, Captain?”
Everyone looked to Ekkehardt, who said, “Forty, starting today.”
“Forty total, I hope, not forty more? You would serve under me, as acting keeper?”
“Yes. We have met before.”
Vranov’s son smiled for the first time, showing an excellent and complete set of teeth. It was a surprisingly persuasive smile. “In opposition. I prefer to have you at my side than in my face.” He could be charming when he wanted, seemingly.
“And I you.”
Madlenka wanted to heave a sigh of relief that the crisis seemed to have been resolved. If the news was bad, it was not as bad as it had seemed at first. So why did she have a nasty feeling that there was worse to come? Who were they waiting for? Well, if nobody else would say it, she would.
“There is one small problem, my lord count.” Her voice trembled only very slightly. “I mean no offense, but we have only your word for it that the Wends are planning to attack.”
Vranov turned his head to smirk at her. “I was wondering who would have the courage to say that. Marijus was there to hear the spies’ reports, weren’t you, Marijus? My troops can start arriving in three or four days. By then, the constable will have sent out scouts to survey the road, won’t you have, Sir Karolis? The only other thin
g I can suggest is that we give you our most solemn oaths that we believe what I have told you to be true. You have some holy relic on which we may swear, my lord bishop?”
“We have a toe bone of St. Andrej in the cathedral,” Ugne said.
Who would trust Havel or his smashed-nose son if they swore on a whole churchyard of holy relics?
Then the landsknecht loosed another volley. “We will need payment in coin, mostly silver.”
The Hound frowned. “As will I, if I am to meet expenses.”
Seneschal Jurbarkas was wringing his hands. “I cannot provide such amounts without royal authority.”
The meeting exploded in shouts of disbelief. Madlenka was suddenly convinced that the whole discussion, ever since she arrived, had been rehearsed and staged in advance, like a passion play, and the true quarry was her father’s gold—her gold, now. But she could not believe that the seneschal, Giedre’s father, who had been like an uncle to her all her life, would have been part of such a conspiracy. Nor, and everyone else seemed to agree on this, could she believe that he would withhold the money needed to defend the castle against the Wends. That would make no sense at all.
The seneschal cowered away from the shouts. He seemed distressed and almost bewildered by the anger. “We do not have chests of coin hidden away. Our income comes from the tolls we gather from travelers, and few of them pay us in gold. The largest part comes from the big trader caravans that pass through here four times a year, two northbound and two southbound. They prefer not to carry bullion, so they pay in bills of exchange drawn on the Fugger Bank of Augsburg or the Medici Bank of Florence. Much of that scrip goes south to Mauvnik twice a year, as the king’s share. Both of this year’s remittances have already gone. As I was explaining to Lady Madlenka on our way here, I do not know how much of our substance belongs to the king and how much to her. I cannot in good conscience loot either the royal share or her inheritance until I am absolutely convinced that the threat is real and that there is no alternative. Not without the king’s authority.”