When the Saints (10 page)

Anton could not see that, but he glanced from Wulf to the youth and back again and guessed what was happening. He begged leave to present his brother and squire, Wulfgang Magnus. Wulf dipped a knee in the snow to kiss the bishop’s ring.

Havel Vranov went through much the same procedure to introduce “My nephew and squire, Alojz Zauber.”

Alojz was probably wearing leathers under his armor, so he would not get his knee wet. He might rust, though. He and Wulf exchanged stares, appraising each other. Possibly there should have been smiles and nods to acknowledge their common talent, but two Speakers had died last night, like an exchange of chessmen, so there could be no trust now. They were there to protect their respective principals and keep each other in line. They and the two counts knew the real rules of the game. The bishops and heralds probably did not.

The six conferees had automatically grouped themselves in a circle, each facing his counterpart.

“Havel,” quavered Bishop Starsi, in an ancient, moss-encrusted voice, “is most anxious to do his duty by our sovereign lord, King Konrad the Fifth, beloved of his people and anointed by God. He believes that the schismatic Wends under that dog turd Wartislaw are planning to attack Castle Gallant and wishes to offer his aid. Yet he tells me that Count Magnus has twice refused it.”

“As he should!” Bishop Ugne declaimed. “Your precious count invaded Castle Gallant last night in the company of Satanists. Four of them came in all. I saw their foul witchcraft with my own eyes. They vanished in the plain sight of all. He is a tool of the devil and should be dealt with accordingly.”

The aged Starsi bleated nervously, “Is this true, my son?”

Havel was showing fangs like a charging bear. “Not a word of it! I was helping my men pitch camp on High Meadows last night and can produce innumerable witnesses. Alojz, for one, will support me in that, won’t you, lad? Whatever you think you saw, my lord bishop, can only have been a foul sending, an apparition raised by evil Wend witchcraft. It has been no secret for years that Wartislaw is in league with Satan. No doubt his purpose was to divide Count Magnus and myself so that we are misled by distrust and fail to unite against him.”

“That is the truth,”
Alojz said.

Fires of hell! That had been a flash! Wulf had let his thoughts wander to Madlenka again and had failed to keep an eagle’s gaze on Squire Alojz. Glaring at him now, he was awarded a small smirk of triumph, hidden from anyone else by the Pelrelmian’s helmet.

“It … it could have been a sending, I suppose,” Ugne mumbled uncertainly. He looked to Anton, who did not speak.

Alojz had tweaked at least one of the bishops, perhaps both, and Wulf had no idea what he could do about it.

Old Starsi was clearly relieved. “I would believe anything of those schismatics, those children of Satan. Did you seek to exorcize the apparition, Brother? Did you banish it back to the nether regions?”

Ugne made an effort to square shoulders that were not made for squaring. “I tried,” he boomed, “but the sending was too strong for an impromptu invocation. It did not depart until it had left an offering in the shape of a young dog—which, I hasten to add, we ritually burned as we purified the hall where this phantasma had appeared…”

And so on. But a story of four bodily intruders had now become one of a mirage. Alojz had changed Ugne’s mind for him in that flash of talent. Yesterday Wulf had seen Marek do the same thing when the Castle Gallant guards refused him admission, and even Marek had glowed for a moment. Justina would call that obscene abuse of power a crime, but the ability to change people’s memories explained how talent could be kept so secret. Now Bishop Ugne’s report to the archbishop would describe an apparition, and the other clergy would follow his lead when preaching to their flocks, no matter what he had said previously. Wulf was aware of Anton looking sideways at him, either outraged by this absurd volte-face, or perhaps himself uncertain if he had caught a side-splash of miracle.

Tweaking was forbidden by the second commandment, but what was Wulf supposed to do about it? Reverse it? Counter-tweak? How did he defend Anton against that sort of mental aggression? No doubt “brancher” Alojz had been trained by “handler” Vilhelmas and knew all the answers. A week ago Wulf had been thrown all alone into deep water with no help but an anchor, and he was still sinking.

“Can we now discuss the forthcoming attack by the schismatic Wends?” Ugne demanded. His face, always ruddy, was glowing brighter than ever in the icy wind. “What is Havel proposing?”

“I am begging on my knees that I be allowed to fulfill my vows and perform the duty I swore to King Konrad, may God preserve His Majesty!” Havel said. “Count Magnus and I are both lords of the northern marches. Our lands march together. We are bound by fealty and custom to come to each other’s aid when hazard looms, as our respective predecessors have done oftentimes. I know how poorly the late Count Bukovany, may Christ cherish his soul, prepared for this emergency, even after he had been warned of Wartislaw’s intentions. I know that his succ Sthaist cheessor is young and understandably headstrong, but now he and his fief stand in deadly peril. Almost his first act on his accession was to dismiss the
landsknecht
mercenaries his predecessor had hired and whom he now so sorely needs.”

He paused for breath. Wulf kept his eyes firmly fixed on Alojz, who returned his attention with the amused contempt of one who is ahead on points and need only keep his opponent from scoring in order to win the match.

“You mean,” Anton said sarcastically, “that, having foxes yapping at my north gate, I should now open the south one to wolves? Cardinal Zdenek himself warned me not to make that mistake.”

Alojz rolled his eyes. Wulf did not lower his guard. If he saw the least flicker in the Pelrelmian’s nimbus, he was going rip the kid’s ear off—inside his helmet where no one else would notice.

“I hope you laugh at your folly when your head is mounted on a spike, my lord.” Havel looked to Ugne. “My lord bishop, can you not make this popinjay countling see reason? Can’t you explain to him that my life and lands are as much at risk as his are? If Wartislaw takes Cardice, he will have forced open the front door to Pelrelm also. I have fought the Wends all my life, and to accuse me of treason now is ludicrous!”

“How much did you pay the
landsknechte
to desert?” Anton asked.

Havel reached for his dagger. The bishops and heralds all wailed that this was a parley.

“You cannot defend this castle without my help!” the Hound yelled.

“I have the help of my brother,” Anton drawled, deliberately provoking the older man. “No, not this one, although he keeps our spirits up with an endless flow of droll stories. I refer to Sir Vladislav Magnus, a knight banneret famed throughout Christendom, who is now supervising our defenses and has assured me that there is no cause for alarm. He can hold off the Wends until it’s so cold their pissers freeze. Which is what the wind is about to do to me, so we should discontinue this meaningless blithering and save your venerable bishop from further distress. Or are you about to threaten to blast your way into my castle and steal it before the Wends do?”

Nobody spoke. Wulf wanted to look at their faces, but dared not take his attention off Alojz.

“That is your last word?” Havel growled at last.

“Almost. If you truly wish to help us,” Anton conceded, “I will admit that we are short of crossbow bolts. So if you care to deliver a wagonload or two to our outpost, I shall happily pay for them at standard rates. The same goes for rent or purchase of any bombards or other firearms you are not using, and of course suitable powder and shot. In short, your help with matériel will be welcome and gratefully acknowledged to His Majesty, but none of your men will set foot inside my gates, and that is final.”

Nicely done. A true patriot should be willing to negotiate on that basis. Wulf raised an eyebrow to invite Alojz’s approval of Anton’s verbal dexterity, but the youth just sneered.

And Havel turned his back. “Come, my lord bishop,” he said. “The boy is mad and we must leave him to God’s mercy.”

“Anton, my son, is this wise?” Ugne muttered.

“My lord bishop,” Anton declared, loud enough for all to hear, “I have knowledge sure as Holy Writ that Havel Vranov is in league with the Pomeranians.” He knew that because Wulf had seen the Hound drinking with the Wends at Long Valley last night; but Wulf could never testify to that in a court of law. “He has taken their silver on the promise of delivering Castle Gallant into their hands. His head will fall in good time to the headsman’s ax, and his soul will writhe in Satan’s furnace for eternity. Take your rabble out of my domain, Hound. You are an irrelevant nuisance.”

Anton took Bishop Ugne’s arm and turned him around. Arturas looked sadly at the opposing herald and both shrugged. The meeting broke up. The workadays went their separate ways, but Alojz Zauber lingered, probably checking that Wulf did not try anything as soon as his back was turned. Wulf also waited.

“How many of you Magnuses are there?” the Pelrelmian demanded. “You must breed like rats.”

“Enough of us to handle the Wends and the Hound without working up a sweat. You’re filling in for Father Vilhelmas, are you?”

The boy bared his teeth. “Assassins!”

“Are we? Ask the late Count Bukovany and his son.”

“Ask your brother the friar.”

“That murder was really stupid,” Wulf said. “For three hundred years, killing Magnuses has been a swift form of suicide. Go home and talk to your confessor before it’s too late, boy.”

A life-and-death parley had degenerated into a child’s slanging match. Assuming that Anton was now safely out of range, Wulf turned on his heel and strode away.

CHAPTER
7

Although there had been no attack on Castle Gallant in Madlenka’s lifetime, nor in her father’s either, her mother had lived through the siege of Castle Zamek before her marriage and knew exactly what had to be done, or thought she did. Quick as Madlenka usually was to find fault with Dowager Countess Edita, she had to admit that the old scold did a fine job in this instance. In no time, she had collected bedding, bandages, and priests, and transformed the hall into an infirmary. Every barber-surgeon in town had been ordered to attend and bring his implements Ve had coll. Boys and able old men were lined up as stretcher bearers. Even before the first Pomeranian quarrel rattled against the barbican wall, the infirmary was open for business.

Madlenka herself took charge of the stretcher-bearing teams, partly because she thought her authority would get help to the wounded faster, partly because she dreaded the horrors of blood and pain that would unfold in the hall. In a way, she was being cowardly in choosing the danger of the battlements, and she remembered Father telling Petr that courage usually sprang from fear of being thought a coward.

Halfway to the barbican she realized that her mother had blundered when she set up the infirmary in the keep, for it was too far from the north gate. She should have consulted one of the Magnus brothers, any of whom would probably have advised her to requisition St. Sebastijan’s church, which was much closer. And as soon as this skirmish was over, they must organize another hospital near the south gate, probably in St. Petr’s. People forget how to fight wars after too many years of peace.

When she arrived at the fighting, Madlenka had no trouble sweeping up the casualties on the curtain wall, but collecting them from the roof of the barbican was a challenge that required every glint of aristocratic arrogance she could summon. Carrying loaded stretchers down a spiral staircase would be both slow and dangerous, so she moved her first-aid station into the machine room and issued orders that the porters taking materials up must not come down empty-handed. Soon screaming wounded were arriving piggyback, or over shoulders. The bolts had been falling at very steep angles, so the wounds were mostly in shoulders and feet. More than one man had been temporarily nailed to the floor, though, and one even had his helmet spiked to his skull; he died on the stretcher.

If anyone had asked her yesterday, she would have said that such gruesome sights would throw her straight into hysteria, yet in the heat of battle she found herself so caught up by the urgency of moving these suffering men to relief as fast as possible that she never lost her nerve for a moment. Neither the blood on her hands and clothes nor the crossbow bolts going
zang!
off the stonework distracted her.

She was only dimly aware of what was going on outside, but she knew that the Wends must either climb over the battlements above or force the main gate below, and in either case the fighting would head for the machine room. The thick stone walls muffled the noise, the shouted orders, the cheers and groans, the clamor of firearms and crossbows. But she registered the roar when the ladders fell.

Jubilation reigned. The defenders screamed their lungs out in triumph. The emergency was over for the day, and soon the Wends withdrew, leaving hundreds of dead behind them. Most of the defenders were allowed to stand down, and promptly rushed away in search of beer, song, and other means of celebration. The last of the wounded in the machine room were carried off to the infirmary, and Madlenka breathed for the first time in too long.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and smiled at Giedre, who looked a freak. Her hair hung in a tangle, as if her head covering had gone for bandages. Her clothes and hands were filthy and bloodstained. Madlenka could be in no better shape, although at least she had retained her tur [ain a tanglban. They had survived their first battle. Please God that it be their last!