Speak to the Devil

by Dave Duncan

  “I think he’s better,” Giedre said, fussing with the food on the tray.

  “Usually I’m much better than that, my lady. Sometimes even witty.”

  Madlenka caught herself smiling. “May I present my companion and best friend, Giedre Jurbarkas? Are you hungry? We brought you some beef soup.” She caught up a spare pillow. “Can you raise yourself, or would you rather we lifted you?”

  He tried to move and winced.

  She said, “Giedre, you go that side.”

  Giedre shot her a disapproving look. She would be able to reach him while standing beside the bed, but Madlenka would have to climb up and kneel beside him. Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing won. She lifted her skirts knee-high and went ahead. Ah, if Mother were to make a miracle recovery and walk in to find her daughter in this compromising position? Or, the count? Much worse!

  But no one did. The squire pulled up his arms to lever himself, the women took hold of him to help, and Madlenka could see that he was at least half naked. The situation grew more interesting—and incriminating—all the time. Even slight movements seemed to hurt him. He grimaced, but did not complain, and the three of them together lifted him enough to prop him in a reclining position. Despite the discolored swellings, his arms and shoulders were thick, all hard, firm muscle so unlike her own soft flesh. He smelled nice.

  Madlenka scrambled off the bed and reached the soup before Giedre did. “Bring that stool!” she commanded and went around to the other side of the bed so she could sit close to him. She was much amused by Giedre’s expression, but unrepentant. Her lord and master, the count, had ordered her to look after his brother.

  Wulfgang needed his face shaved and his hair brushed. She might see to those personally. She popped a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

  “Too hot? Too cold?”

  “Perfect,” he sighed, but it wasn’t clear from the way he was staring at her whether he meant the soup or her. “Tell me what happened yesterday, when Anton arrived.”

  So she fed him soup and information. He drank some watered wine but refused anything that needed chewing.

  She decided that shaving him would be a little too personal and might cause Giedre to have apoplexy, so she sent for the castle barber. While he was attending to her patient, she went off to check on Mother, who was still curled up like a frightened caterpillar and about as responsive.

  When she returned to the squire, she found Anton there. He kissed her on the lips, which was brazen of him in public, but she managed to smile after it was over.

  “Your patient is obviously thriving under your care, my lady,” he said.

  “I think he’s being very brave.”

  “Oh, all we Magnuses are tough. I’m going to go exploring the town. Will you be my guide?”

  “I’d love to, but I shall have to go and change first.”

  He shrugged, losing interest. “It’s raining, and I know how women hate to get their hair wet. This afternoon, perhaps?” Then he left.

  Giedre rolled her eyes. Wulf was frowning.

  “Well, at least he’s not in armor now,” she said, going around to the stool beside him. “Do you need anything, squire?”

  “I need you to call me Wulf. I also need to stare admiringly at you for about two hours. It is very beneficial for me.”

  “Very embarrassing for me, though.”

  “Nonsense. You should find it flattering, because I’ve never done it before with anyone.” He had a wonderful smile. “And you mustn’t make fun of my brother’s armor. He’s very proud of it. Did he show you the dent?”

  “No,” she said, intrigued. Was her husband-to-be a war hero after all? “Does it record a narrow escape?”

  “Very narrow,” Wulf said solemnly. “The mail was specially made for him—that’s traditional, and in his case it had to be, because of his height. Designed in Milan, made in Augsburg; the best. Good armorers prove their work by firing an arquebus at it to show that the ball will not penetrate. Then they engrave a testimonial around the dent. I told him he ought to make doubly sure by proving it again while he was wearing it, and standing closer. That was the narrow escape.”

  “He did it?”

  “I was afraid he was going to. It took me two hours to talk him out of it.”

  Giedre sniggered in the background. Madlenka laughed, then Wulf did too. She suspected there might be a grain of truth in that story, or at least in stories like that—about Anton. Not about Wulfgang.

  “What do you do for amusement, here at Castle Gallant?” he asked.

  “Hunt,” she said.

  “Falconry?”

  “Yes, and venery—deer, and mountain goats. Plus boar, hares, badgers, wolves and so on. Very rarely a bear.”

  “It sounds like heaven, but too strenuous at the moment. Sing to me.”

  Yes, she would enjoy doing that. “Giedre, go fetch my lute, please.”

  Giedre rose and went to pull the bell rope. When a page responded, she told him to fetch Madlenka’s lute. Then she sat down and made a face like a gargoyle. Really! Admittedly Madlenka and Squire Wulfgang had been indulging in a little playful flirting. What possible harm could there be in that?

  CHAPTER 17

  Wulf was feeling much better by afternoon—due, of course, to the superb nursing he was receiving. Madlenka fussed over him like a cat with one kitten. Now she was cutting up roast duck, which smelled delicious.

  “Your brother says that you are tougher than boiled leather,” she remarked, popping a piece into the invalid’s mouth.

  She must have iron fingers, for it was hot enough to hurt his wounded tongue. He swallowed it quickly. If she fed him molten lead, he would never complain about the service.

  “All thanks to him. With four older brothers, I had to be tough to survive. And he was the worst. The best teacher, I mean.”

  He was rewarded with another smile, albeit a small one. That made twenty-two on this visit.

  “Our herald says that the sash he wears means that he’s a personal friend of the king.”

  Wulf urgently needed to confer with Anton and find out what stories he was telling. “If he can defend Castle Gallant from the Wends, he will be the best and dearest friend the king ever had. If he can’t, he will qualify for a state funeral. Probably in two boxes.”

  Lady Madlenka raised golden eyebrows. “The smaller one for his head?”

  “The larger one for his head.”

  Now her smile was a fanfare of trumpets. Count that one twice! She was, without question, the most beautiful woman in the world, with hair like autumn wheat and eyes of summer sky. She was tall and graceful, light on her feet. Her companion Giedre sat silently knitting in the corner of the bedroom, chaperoning her mistress. Although she might be lovely enough on her own, in a dimply, cuddlesome sort of way, she disappeared completely when Madlenka was present.

  “Tell me about the other brothers.”

  “Why? I’m the only one of the five who’s interesting.”

  “Tell me about you, then.”

  He tried to shrug and winced instead. “I am popular with dogs, horses, falcons, and honest people. I’m not mean enough to be a soldier, devout enough to be a cleric, or smart enough to be a scholar. I realize that you don’t have failings, so I’ll let you share some of mine.”

  He was leaning back against a pile of cushions, being fed like an infant, and it was heavenly. It was true that he still hurt from head to toe, but he could grit his teeth and move if he had to. He didn’t need to be made of boiled leather to do that. And he could not take his eyes away from Madlenka Bukovany. The troubadours had it right about love at first sight. Faster than a thunderbolt. He had never fallen in love before and was already certain that he never would again, which must be a very bad sign.

  The strange, wonderful, unbelievable, historical, sensational, exhilarating thing was that the lady Madlenka seemed just as fascinated by him as he was by her. Her eyes kept wandering to his arms, lying on the cover. Granted, they were a
spectacular sunset medley of yellow, purple, and green, but she must have seen a man’s arms before. Lately the covers had slipped a little lower on his chest and her gaze kept flickering there now. He suspected that he might be displaying a few golden chest hairs. By the mercy of God, the top cover was a quilt thick enough to hide a terrible bulge that would have shown up through any mere rug or blanket.

  “Failings?” Madlenka murmured. “I don’t think I need any failings. Do I have failings, Giedre?”

  Giedre said, “I have known you to spend hours raving about young men with honey-colored hair and eyes as yellow as wolves’.”

  “I did not call them yellow!” Madlenka bellowed, and then blushed crimson, staring at Wulf in horror.

  “Golden, then,” Giedre said, not looking up. “You also went into raptures over muscular arms, as I recall.”

  Wulf knew he was blushing also, but perhaps that wouldn’t show through the bruises. “It’s true my arms are yellow,” he said, “and also purple. My legs, now, are red with green stripes, if you’d like a peek. And I think you are the most beautiful lady I have ever set eyes on.”

  “That is enough!” Giedre said, jumping to her feet. “Out, my lady! This can only lead to trouble.”

  “No, it can’t,” Wulf said. “You are affianced to my brother by royal command. I would never try to steal you away from Anton, even if I thought I could. I’m loyal to him and loyal to the king and now I’m loyal to you, too, because you have been kind to me and I won’t return hurt for kindness. I’m sure you would be true to your promise to him anyway. Nothing is going to happen, except that in a week or so, when I’m healed, I’ll jump on a horse and ride away. He doesn’t need me here. Meanwhile, what harm if I stare at you longingly now and again? I will never meet a more beautiful woman.”

  He meant every word of this speech, but if he asked St. Helena or St. Victorinus to arrange matters for him, anything might be possible. Marek had warned him about that temptation.

  “Where’s the spoon?” Madlenka said briskly, turning away. “I brought some suet pudding with honey. Can you manage it by yourself, do you think?”

  “I am much restored by the excellent duck.” Wulf heaved himself a little higher yet on the pillow and pulled the cover up to conceal any dangerous chest hairs.

  Madlenka thrust a bowl of sodden pudding at him and moved her chair several feet away from the edge of the bed. Wulf winked at her.

  “I saw that,” Giedre said.

  “You were meant to. Smile, goddess.”

  Madlenka folded her arms and glared at him. “Your brother wants us to be handfasted.”

  Pudding turned to mud in his mouth. “So that he can cohabit with you without having to wait for formal marriage? Nobody does that anymore! What did you tell him?” No! Please make it “No”!

  “I said no. I said that I didn’t want there to be any arguments about the legitimacy of the stalwart male twins I plan to give him nine months and two days after our wedding night.”

  “Make it three days to be safe. I think that was a wise decision. What does your priest say?”

  “I haven’t asked him. It’s none of his business. Count Magnus is going to ride out with the Long Valley patrol tomorrow.”

  Why did she mention that?

  “He needs to become familiar with the terrain,” Wulf said. “If he is to repel an attack by the Wends, I mean.”

  “How can he possibly do that? He spurned Vranov’s offer of help and sent him packing. The landsknechte all left this morning. We’re worse off than we were twenty-four hours ago, when he turned up in the cathedral.”

  “Don’t underestimate Anton,” Wulf said defensively. “He’s as proud as a peacock and smart as a jackdaw.”

  Before Madlenka could comment, the door flew open and the count himself strode in, ducking under the lintel. He nodded to the women, then added a smile as an afterthought. He obviously had something serious on his mind.

  “How are you now?” he asked curtly.

  “Much the same as I was this morning,” Wulf said.

  Madlenka curtseyed. “Pardon us, my lord.”

  She left, holding the door for Giedre, who carried the dinner tray. The moment the door closed, Anton strode over to the window and stared out at the bailey.

  “I just sentenced a man to death.”

  Wulf winced. “Not a pleasant duty, I’m sure. But a necessary one. You are a lord of the high justice.” Getting no reply, he added. “I’ve watched Ottokar doing it.”

  Otto did it very rarely, though, and didn’t enjoy it either. The last criminal he had executed had been Hans the blacksmith’s son, who had raped a girl while he was drunk and she wasn’t. If Marek’s Voices hadn’t saved Hans’s life when he was a child, it wouldn’t have happened. But if Wulf’s Voices hadn’t brought Anton here to Cardice … Did Wulf bear some guilt too?

  “I did it exactly the way Ottokar does it,” Anton told the window. “He’s talking with a priest now, and they’re rigging up a noose down there in the bailey. They’re harnessing a horse to a cart.”

  “For the constable?”

  Anton nodded. “Karolis Kavarskas. He admitted that when Havel Vranov was here in August, Kavarskas took his money to let him know right away ‘if anything important happened in Cardice.’”

  “So he’s hinting that Vranov knew that Stepan and Petr were going to die?”

  Anton turned around with a sneer on his face. “He testified that Vranov expected that something serious was going to happen, but couldn’t or wouldn’t say what. Kavarskas also promised that if I spared his life now, he would testify against Vranov if the king ever wants to put him on trial. But there’s not a moth’s chance in hell that Vranov could ever be brought into a courtroom, or that anyone would take Kavarskas’s word against his anyway.”

  “So Kavarskas confessed?” Trust Anton to get an easy decision on his first capital case!

  “He didn’t have much choice by then. He tried to bribe his way out of jail. I had him stripped and he had twenty gold florins in a money belt.”

  Wulf tried to whistle, but that hurt. “Does he have a family? Children?”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Anton said irritably. “If he does, he should have thought of them before he took money from a man other than his lord.”

  “I suppose so. I hope you rewarded the garrison handsomely before you put its commander on trial?”

  He was recalling one of their father’s stories, and Anton flashed a momentary smile. “I reminded them that we are on war footing and doubled their pay.”

  “Smart man. Why did the landsknechte leave?”

  “Must go. They’re bringing him out.” Anton headed for the door. “Because Ekkehardt thinks the Wends are going to set up their big gun and blow us all to bits.”

  “Wait!” Wulf snapped. “What story are you telling? How do you explain the timing?”

  Anton dismissed the problem with a wave of his hand. “My papers are all backdated to the eighteenth, so you and I are in the clear. We rode here from Mauvnik like the wind and at first we had a moon to help us. The question is how His Majesty, may God preserve him, learned of the emergency so quickly. That is a state secret. I have dropped a few hints to the bishop about the courier being intercepted, and carrier pigeons. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  Anton took hold of the handle and then looked around. “How soon will you be fit to ride, Wulf?”

  Oh, that was what he’d come to ask? “Next year, maybe. I may go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem first.”

  “Seriously. Wulf, I need your help.”

  “You promised you would never ask again.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Wulf pushed down the covers to show the colors. “Look. Every muscle in my body cramped up so hard it bruised. Every accursed one, and many times, not just once. I did what you asked and you promised never to ask me again. You think I’m ever going to accept this torture willingly now that I know what it involves? I’d rather be ra
cked till I’m taller than you are. Dream not, Brother. I shall Speak no more.”

  Anton sighed and left, mumbling about having to give the signal to move the cart.

  CHAPTER 18

  In Tuesday’s chill gray dawn, Count Magnus rode out as a member of the Long Valley patrol. His escort wore a motley collection of mismatched hand-me-down mail, both plate and chain, so they had little in common except their Cardice surcoats and the crossbows slung on their backs. His own fine armor marked him as a nobleman, as did his mount, a splendid gray courser named Avalanche that had been a favorite of the late Count Bukovany.

  Just because Jorgarian troops continued to man the post at Long Valley did not mean that Duke Wartislaw was not slipping patrols past it, keeping a watch on Castle Gallant. If that were the case, then Anton would make a wonderful target of opportunity. He would be safer riding a nag and wearing the same nondescript gear as the troopers—assuming he could find any to fit him—but it did not become a nobleman to hide his rank like that. Well, if the worst happened, he would certainly not be the first Magnus to be nailed into his cuirass by a crossbow bolt.

  The mountains were wrapped in fleece and the valleys blurred by something too heavy for mist and too light to be rain. The first half mile or so was easy enough, with cliff-up on the left and cliff-down on the right. The surface was in need of repair, but not bad enough to hinder an invading army. He had seen this part from the tower. The two roads, the north and south approaches to Gallant, were almost as impressive as the castle itself.

  He thought about pestilence. He had thought of little else since the word was mentioned. The stricken landsknecht woman had died before Ekkehardt led his men out, and he had reluctantly accepted a bribe of a thousand florins to take the body away with him and bury it in the graveyard at High Meadows.

  So far Ekkehardt had been the only one to mention plague. He might have been bribed to invent it. He might have made a mistake, for other diseases could produce buboes. Even that senile, half-witted doctor in the infirmary ought to have recognized the symptoms of pestilence if he had seen them. Anton clung desperately to the hope that there was no pestilence.