by Dave Duncan
“Open in the … name of the … king!”
He held up one of his scrolls to let the sergeant see the royal bear and the king’s seal.
It worked. The man’s eyes widened in astonishment. They took in the seal, his youth, the baton he held in his other hand, the golden baldric. He saluted.
“Master Sergeant Jachym, your servant, my lord. Open the sally port!”
Bars and bolts thumped, hinges creaked. The narrow sally port door swung open and Anton stepped through to face half a dozen grinning guards.
“There is a man …” He pointed. “Just around the corner. Badly hurt. Um, had a bad fall. Horse dragged him. Have him brought in and cared for. Well cared for! He is my brother!” he added menacingly. “See to that first, Master Sergeant. Now!”
Jachym barked. A trooper ran into the castle.
Everyone was waiting for more orders. Anton tucked his baton under his left arm and twirled his mustache with his right hand. “The count?”
The sergeant’s first reaction was to cross himself, which answered the question even before his mumbled prayer for Bukovany’s soul.
“Amen. Then I need someone … lead me to …” To whom? Cardinal Zdenek had warned him against the constable. If Anton dropped in on him he might find himself bouncing straight on into a dungeon— “…the countess.” She was the least likely to be involved in the treason that Cardinal Zdenek had suggested.
Jachym frowned. He was a bull-necked man with a ruddy face and hard, searching eyes. So far he was reacting well to this sudden emergency. “Countess Edita is reported to be grave afflicted, my lord. Lady Madlenka, her daughter? Seneschal Jurbarkas? Or … of course … Constable Kavarskas …?”
His mouth said that. His face, his stance, his phrasing were all screaming, “Not Constable Kavarskas!” And yet Kavarskas was his superior! His other men’s expressions flickered, but there were too many for Anton to read individually. He registered only that even the garrison had doubts about their commander.
Four men came running out and sped off down the hill, two of them carrying blankets and poles to rig a stretcher. Anton had done as much as he could for Wulf. Meanwhile he must make a choice. Lady Madlenka was certainly tempting, but he would have to delay the pleasure of that meeting.
“…to the seneschal,” he said. It was he who had sent the report to Cardinal Zdenek.
At least a dozen more Cardice troopers had appeared in the barbican, while in the shadowy background lurked a trio of very different warriors, resplendent in the spectacular garb of landsknechte. Otto and Vlad often entertained landsknecht friends at Dobkov. These three were observing, not participating. Their leader would want his own reports on anything that happened at the gate.
“Llywelyn!” the sergeant said. “Take your squad and escort His Lordship to the keep and find the seneschal for him. You are under his orders.”
Llywelyn was a man of around fifty, with a lethal, case-hardened look to him. He lined up his squad behind him with a few sharp words in another accent altogether, then indicated that Anton should head toward the far side of the barbican. He had enormous arms and shoulders; no doubt his armor was hiding a twisted spine.
“You’re no crossbowman,” Anton said. “The English longbow’s your weapon.”
Llywelyn beamed at this display of expertise. “It used to be, my lord.”
Baroness Pavla had died when Wulf was born, so all Anton’s life the table talk at Dobkov had been of military matters—from Father and his guests, and later from Ottokar and Vladislav. Anton had known an arquebus from a halberd and a ravelin from a trace Italienne before he wore his first pair of shoes. It couldn’t hurt now to demonstrate that he was wise for his years.
“Can’t manage a hundred-and-fifty-pound pull now?”
“No, my lord. I plays with crossbows now, see. Like toys, they are.”
“Tell me what’s happened since Sir Petr was killed by the boar.”
Llywelyn drew a deep breath and spewed out a torrent of singsong that sounded somewhat like, “That was Saturday see and the count may God have mercy on his soul died on Monday see so they were buried side by side on Tuesday see and the Heavens wept for it and they say the poor woman hasn’t stopped lamenting ever since and this morning the count of Pelrelm him they call the Hound of the Hills came a-calling and there’s rumors that he’s brought a son to marry the child Madlenka see and be the next keeper begging your pardon my lord.”
“Good report, Sergeant.” So Havel Vranov was—
“Sarge?” said one of the bodyguards at Anton’s back. “I heard just now that they’re gone to St. Andrej’s.”
Anton spun around, walking backward so he could look at the rest of the men. “Any of the rest of you heard that?”
“Aye,” said two.
“A church?”
“The cathedral, my lord.”
Anton completed his rotation. “To St. Andrej’s, Sergeant. At the double.”
CHAPTER 12
A sort of universal gasp of dismay filled the cathedral and then was instantly suppressed. Even the bishop stood slack-jawed and speechless. Madlenka and her companions spun around to locate the speaker. The congregation—which now filled the rear two-thirds of the nave—parted to clear a passage for him as he casually strolled forward, spurs jingling and sollerets tapping like hammers on the flagstones. He was smiling, evidently enjoying the sensation he had caused.
He was bareheaded, with curly dark hair, a pretty-boy face, and a stringy mustache, but the first thing Madlenka noticed was how tall he was, because he was clearly visible over the crowd. As the last of the congregation moved out of his way, she saw that he was wearing full armor, carrying his helmet under one arm. His surcoat was emblazoned with a clenched gauntlet, and he wore a golden baldric slanted across it, crossed by a leather strap supporting a satchel. He bore no sword, but there were streaks of blood on his shoulder and chest. He came striding forward in a clank of metal shoes and a jingle of spurs. How far back had he been standing? He must have very sharp ears to have heard the banns, or very quick wits to have guessed what the bishop was doing.
At first sight he might be just any man-at-arms with his rations in the bag on his shoulder. At second glance he certainly wasn’t. His armor was superb, tailor-made. He was nobility. The jeweled baton he carried said so and the sash of honor across his chest shouted it. Most of all, though, it was utterly beyond belief that any commoner in Christendom could match that youthful haughtiness, or the impregnable arrogance of his mustache, twirled up like a water buffalo’s horns.
Kavarskas and Dalibor Notivova moved as if to block him. He handed his helmet to Kavarskas as he might to a varlet and the assurance in that gesture was enough to make the constable fall back out of his way all by itself.
The newcomer bypassed the principals to reach the bishop, dropped briefly to one knee to kiss his ring, and bounced up again. From his bag he took a scroll bearing a red wax seal the size of a man’s palm, which he handed to Ugne.
“If you would be so kind as to read this out, my lord bishop?”
The townsfolk were whispering like wind in a forest. That was no ordinary wax seal. Count Stepan had not used a seal near that size.
Madlenka tore her eyes away for a second to look at her companions. Marijus had flushed a deep red color; his father’s face was pale with fury, and she felt a surge of relief that stole her breath away. Whatever scheme the Pelrelmians had been plotting had not included this intruder, this slender youth with the boar’s-tusks mustache. Whoever or whatever he was, he was not a Vranov imposter.
Bishop Ugne glanced at the seal and looked up with shock. “Of course I shall … my lord?”
The newcomer smiled. “Just read it.” He watched as the bishop strode over to the steps, where people would see him better.
Then the boy turned his smile on Madlenka. He beckoned her to him, so she went. “Your brother,” he whispered, “told the king that you were both a hellion and a great beauty. I think
he was guilty of two counts of criminal understatement.”
Oh!
She gaped at him like a landed fish. He came from the king?
Already? But how …?
“This is a proclamation,” Bishop Ugne proclaimed, “issued by our beloved sovereign, King Konrad the Fifth, may God preserve him.”
The congregation responded automatically: “Amen!”
He read it out in Latin, then translated it into the vernacular. Everyone was staring at the newcomer, and he was looking down at Madlenka. He winked. She hastily lowered her veil to hide her blushes. Better a boy sent by the king than any son of Havel Vranov, but she had not expected anyone like this.
“…royal command … the said Madlenka Bukovany … in holy matrimony …”
Anton Magnus, a count, a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, no less! And she was to marry him, by the king’s command.
“…under our hand in our capital of Mauvnik, this eighteenth day of September in the year of Our …”
Madlenka Magnus? Countess Madlenka.
What had she expected? Love? Like a princess in a troubadour’s romance? He was little older than herself, she judged; handsome, she supposed; perhaps witty, or even charming, judging by his first two sentences to her.
“And now two more, if you please, my lord bishop.” Magnus handed the bishop another scroll.
He was to be the new keeper, lord of the marches. She would not be heading south to anywhere. She would be staying in Cardice for the rest of her life, if the Wends did not raze the castle next week, and that wasn’t going to happen if Count Magnus had arrived with an army at his back. He had arrived in time to save them.
What did the blood on his surcoat imply? Again she looked at Marijus, then at his father, farther along the row. They were both very pale now. What of the two hundred men they had left down at High Meadows? Had Magnus come with an army to fight the Wends and cleaned out the Pelrelmians in passing?
Bishop Ugne returned the third scroll, looking both shaken and overjoyed. “Now a brief prayer of thanksgiving, my lord?”
“Not yet,” Magnus said. “I think you had better recite those banns again with the proper names.” He offered Madlenka his hand.
She hesitated, then took it.
“Sorry I didn’t have time to clean up,” he murmured. “I hope you weren’t in love with that whoever he is?”
She shook her head. He was tall, but not too tall. She was tall, too, although she felt small at the moment.
“What parish, my lord?” the bishop asked.
“St. Ulric, in Dobkov.”
Where in the world was Dobkov?
“Very good. I publish the banns of marriage between …” He had to shout at the end, as the congregation began to cheer. If he still wanted to lead them in prayer he was again blocked by Magnus, who blithely turned his back on both priest and altar and raised mailed arms for silence.
“Thank you, good people of Cardice.” He frowned impatiently at another cheer. “There are a couple of things we must do right away. You, I believe, are Count Vranov of Pelrelm?”
Havel surged forward, beard drawn back to show snarling yellow teeth. “I am, and I would like to know how you brought those papers from the capital in less—”
“I ask the questions here!” Magnus roared.
The royal proclamations had been dated on September eighteenth, which had been the day of the funerals. Young Gintaras was a superb rider, but he could not possibly have ridden from Gallant to the capital in just three days, not even in midsummer.
The new count was not about to discuss that, evidently. “You have no doubt expressed your condolences to the countess and my future wife, so your business here is complete. Constable Kavarskas?”
Looking considerably worried, the constable saluted.
“See that Count Vranov and all his companions are escorted to the gate they came in by. Make sure it is locked behind them. But you stay here.”
Kavarskas saluted again and passed the order on to Dalibor with a nod.
“You will regret this when the Wends get here!” Vranov bellowed.
“They will be an improvement. May the Lord be with you, Havel.” Magnus twirled up his mustache and glanced down at Madlenka. “Vice versa would be another improvement,” he whispered. She choked back what might well have become a highly improper snigger. Her husband-to-be was nothing if not sure of himself. No, he was good at seeming so. She was close enough to him to see the sparkles of sweat on his forehead; he was not as confident as he was pretending.
Count Vranov glared for a moment, then turned on his heel and stormed off along the nave, limping at the gallop, followed by Marijus and their knights. Dalibor took two men and followed. The landsknechte all stayed. Perhaps they no longer saw the Pelrelmians as a threat.
“Anton, my son …”
“My humble pardon, my lord bishop, but there are two more very urgent things I must attend to right now, vital for His Majesty’s business. Constable Kavarskas, are you willing to swear fealty to me as count of Cardice and lord of the marches?”
Kavarskas was looking far from pleased, but he said, “Certainly, my lord. Bishop Ugne has testified to your right.” If he hoped the bishop would now change his mind, he was disappointed.
“And who,” Magnus demanded, “held your loyalty ten minutes ago?”
The constable’s eyes narrowed. “The king, my lord. Who else?” His hook was steadying the scabbard of his sword.
“You did not, perchance, see Havel Vranov as your temporary lord, in the absence of a count of Cardice?”
Kavarskas looked for support to the seneschal, the bishop, even Madlenka, but could not seem to find it. “He was the senior nobleman within reach, my lord, so of course I was required to give weight to his counsel.” He drew a deep breath. “And I think we all need an answer to the question he just asked you. How did you get here from Mauvnik so soon? Perhaps the reverend Bishop Ugne is wondering also.”
There was a clear accusation of Speaking there. Surely not! Madlenka shivered. But there and back again in eight days? They hadn’t expected Gintaras to reach Mauvnik in less than a week. She resisted an urge to edge away from her designated fiancé.
“If the reverend bishop wishes to ask me such questions,” the count said cheerfully, “I shall give him answers. You are not the bishop and I am asking the questions. When was Count Stepan smitten?”
“On Saturday the fifteenth, my lord. A week ago yesterday.”
“And when did you send your dispatch to His Majesty?”
“When the count died. I saw no point in rousing alarm unnecessarily if—”
“What date?”
“He died late on Monday, so the courier left at first light on Tuesday. That was the eighteenth.”
“But not the first courier?” Magnus glanced at the much-reduced party in the front rank. “You are the seneschal?”
The old man smiled and bowed. “Ramunas Jurbarkas, your most humble servant, my lord.”
“Humility doesn’t impress me too much,” Count Magnus said airily. “Honesty does. When did you send your report to the king?”
“The fifteenth, my lord.”
“And why did you do so? It should have been the constable’s job.”
The old man looked sadly at Kavarskas. Then he said, “Because I was informed by a reliable source that, although a messenger had been sent right away, he did not take the south road. He was observed riding west.”
Magnus must know that Madlenka had countersigned Jurbarkas’s report. He couldn’t know that it had been her idea and she had bullied the old man into sending it. The count did not bring her into the discussion, though. Instead he raised his voice to a bellow.
“Llywelyn!”
There was movement at the back of the church.
“Wait!” the bishop cried, striding forward. “This is the Lord’s House—”
“Suffer me in this, my lord bishop. I’m not going to lay hands on him. Ah, there yo
u are.” A burly archer had emerged from the crowd, with others behind him. When they arrived at the transept—“Llywelyn, you may accept the constable’s sword if he wishes to give it up. If he doesn’t, no matter. Here he is in holy sanctuary, and he may remain here forty days if he so wishes. You will post guards to watch over him day and night, and the moment he sets foot outside, you will arrest him and see he is secured in a dungeon. He is not to be maltreated otherwise. You act in my name in this and I hold you responsible for his safety and confinement. You may call on as many men from the garrison as you require.”
“Then what?” Kavarskas shouted, hand on sword.
“Then you will be charged with high treason and given a fair trial. Will you go peacefully?”
Showing a dignity Madlenka would not have expected from him, Kavarskas handed the count’s helmet to the archer, then drew his sword and passed it over also. He made reverence to the host, and turned to go.
Anton let out a soft sigh of relief that only Madlenka and the bishop could have heard. “One more to go,” he murmured. “The name of the landsknecht captain?”
“Luitger Ekkehardt,” she said.
“Captain Ekkehardt!”
The big man in his butterfly glory paused an insolent moment before saluting the new count, no expression escaping through his barley-colored beard.
“You are under contract to the lord of the marches, an office I now have the honor to bear. I have your loyalty?”
The big man did not look impressed by this elongated youth. “We contracted for garrison duty, not siege work.”
Anton fingered his mustaches again. “You mean you were hired just to look pretty, not to fight at all? I never heard of mercenaries actually having that written into their contracts, even if that was how they interpreted their duties afterward.”
“The Pomeranians are coming.”
“That’s why the king sent me. Where have you fought?”
“In France against the English, in Moravia, under Casali on the Milan campaign, at Pisa, in Bavaria …”
“The Milan campaign—wasn’t that Alberto Casali’s troop? Fifteen years ago? Was that where you learned your trade? Casali looked like a rat and fought like a mouse. My brother Vladislav met him in Bavaria two years ago. Did you meet Louis Macquer at Milan? His men called him Basilisk Mouth—if he just breathed on walls they collapsed. Or Herman Maier? Now, there was a fighter, until he tried to field a cannonball outside Linz. You know Sigmund Geismeyer?”