When the Saints (41 page)

Wulf regarded his new fame with dread, feeling the teeth of doom closing around him. A second untried Magnus being raised to high office in less than a week would drag the family history out into full sunlight. Historians, archivists, and genealogists would recall that the Magnuses of Dobkov had for centuries been famous for their swordsmen and infamous for their sorcerers. Miracle promotions, wondrous-fast journeys, and military catastrophes of biblical proportions would combine in a witches’ brew of suspicion that the Church could not possibly overlook, no matter how much the eminent Cardinal d’Estouteville might want it to. And perhaps that reverend gentleman wouldn’t care, once he had squeezed everything he needed from the youthful Satanist.

So Sir Wulfgang Magnus left the hall in the company of the king’s first minister. Brother Daniel might as well have been invisible, and so might the three young novices dispatched by the chancellor to scamper along the sides of the hall and vanish out the door before His Eminence was halfway there. They would be carrying word of his coming and summoning helpers he might need. Zdenek had his staff well trained.

Once out into the corridor, he gestured for Wulf to come forward and walk at his side.

“Assuming the Eminent Cardinal d’Estouteville does not consign you to the flames, what will you do about Castle Gallant?”

The audacity of the man! Was Wulf now expected to solve every single problem in the kingdom? Single-handed? Of course Zdenek’s predicament was obvious and totally beyond his workaday control. He certainly did not want King Krystof II marching his army north to lay siege to Gallant. Within days the news would be out, and instead of the stunning triumph of the Wends’ defeat, he would be announcing that a traitor had seized the king’s strongest fortress. Zdenek was at the mercy of the Saints, and Lady Umbral might set a price beyond nightmares of avarice.

Wulf would have terms of his own, which he need not mention now.

“Assuming I can satisfy Cardinal d’Estouteville and escape the Inquisition, Your Eminence, then my duty to His Highness will certainly include seeing that Cardice is returned to its loyalty. Disposing of the traitor Vranov will also be a personal pleasure, of course.”

The heralds would have an interesting problem of succession to settle. As Anton’s younger brother, Wulf would normally inherit his title, but he had taken on other duties. Otto would want to retain his barony. Vlad, currently unemployed, could supply the military skill to modernize Castle Gallant’s defenses: guns, redoubts, and so on. Yes, Vlad it would have to be.

Zdenek waited for more and then shot him a suspicious glance. Neither spoke. Theirs was going to be an interesting partnership.

The decor began to look familiar; soon Wulf heard a familiar flute-like voice spouting forth the wisdom of the ages regarding the natural superiority of man over woman. Once around the corner, he saw that Crown Prince Konrad had brougrad had ht only three male companions and two of his pretty boys-at-arms. Princess Laima was there with a pair of her dragon-slayer nuns. The crown prince could have chosen a more tactful subject on which to harangue his sister.

He broke off with a leer of ill-sorted teeth. “Ah, Your Eminence! My sister is delighted with your … I mean, she wishes to thank our grandsire for choosing such a fitting husband for her.” The leer became a smirk. “And I thought that, under the circumstances, it might be appropriate for me to be one of the witnesses.”

“Indeed it will be, Your Highness,” the cardinal said smoothly. “I cannot imagine why I did not think to suggest it.” He glanced at the others. “Lord Pavel … Sir Augustin … Sir Lubos … You brought your seals, I trust? And I asked a couple of other noble lords to attend. I am sure they will be along expeditiously. Do you wish to present your new master of horse to Her Highness?”

For a moment Konrad hesitated, regarding the cardinal as if wondering what lay behind the question. That pause was more confirmation that, while he was certainly stupid, he might not be as stupid as he pretended.

“Sir Wulfgang Magnus, my dear.”

Seeing Laima in daylight for the first time, Wulf decided that their mother must have saved up all the beauty she could bestow until she gave birth to a daughter. Her brother was a gargoyle. She was a nymph, with eyes of jet, matching curls showing decorously under the edge of her bonnet, and a skin as smooth as new snow.

Wulf bowed. “An honor to cherish always.”

Black as jet, Laima’s eyes assessed the unfamiliar Italian style of his clothes and finally his face. And then, as if the three of them had practiced for weeks, she and the two nuns simultaneously crossed themselves. Had the tocsin sounded a great warning clang right overhead, the message could not have been clearer: the Magnus reputation for sorcery had emerged.

Had Zdenek planned this? Had Konrad planted the necessary seed? His cronies were looking startled, so probably not. And if the cardinal had expected that response, what was he playing at?

He, of course, showed no reaction. “Shall we wait upon His Majesty?”

The grouping parted to let him lead the way. The guards on the royal sickroom presented arms and Wulf opened the door. The chamber was much larger than he had realized from his previous glimpse of it. The bed itself was big enough that the dozen or so visitors could line up around it to view the dying occupant. The prince and his cronies went to the king’s left, the princess and her companions to his right, and Wulf found himself at the foot, beside the cardinal.

For a long moment there was silence. Another friar with a nimbus had been in attendance on the patient, so now there were three Speakers present, but Wulf was confident that one of the other two must be fully occupied keeping the king alive.

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If he was alive. The bedcover had changed from blue to red, but otherwise the old man lay exactly as Wulf had seen him two days ago, a shrunken image of the great warrior-king of times now half forgotten: eyes closed, death-mask face carved from white candle wax, wisps of hair spread on the pillow like combed gossamer. His hands still seemed too large—indeed, they seemed unreal, just models resting on the coverlet at the end of white silk sleeves too flat to contain a warrior’s arms. His colorless lips were slightly parted, but the straggly mustache hairs overlapping them did not move to indicate that he still breathed.

“Well?” young Konrad inquired. “Do we start the necromancy now or wait until midnight?”

“Your Majesty,” Zdenek announced. “His Highness is here.”

Very slowly, the ancient head on the pillow tilted in the prince’s direction. In a moment it returned to its previous position. The eyes had not opened.

“And Her Highness also.”

The same thing happened, except that this time the king’s lips shaped a faint smile.

“Don’t get him too excited,” the prince muttered, surprised and disappointed by even that small response. He had not come to witness a betrothal contract, but a death certificate.

Princess Laima’s eyes glistened with tears. Her nuns were glowering at Wulf, as if he were responsible for desecrating a corpse, but it was the nimbus on the friar who had been attending the king that was glowing brighter than before.

“Your Majesty,” the princess said. It was the first time Wulf had heard her voice. It was tuneful and pitched much lower than her brother’s. “Dear Grandsire, I am very happy to hear of the wonderful husband you have chosen for me.”

The smile might have widened a fraction. The king certainly nodded. The movement was slight, but it was a nod. He returned to his previous cadaver pose.

Two well-dressed men of middle years came hurrying in. The witnesses were all present and business could proceed.

“We have brought the contract for your royal consent,” the cardinal announced.

Brother Daniel was already at the king’s right hand, with writing equipment laid out on a bedside table. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped a quill, and reached across to offer it to the king, whose fingers closed around it.

The other friar’s nimbus brightened even more. The king’s hand rose. His eyelids might have lifted an eyelash width—it was hard to tell. The friar held out the vellum sheet, resting on a writing board, and positioned it so the pen hung over the appropriate space. The king signed. The princess and the nuns crossed them crossedselves. So did Pavel and Augustin, but Lubos and the prince just stared in disbelief.

Displaying no sign that anything untoward had happened, Brother Daniel sprinkled sand on the ink and repeated the process with a second vellum. Then came the rigmarole of wax and candle and attaching the king’s seal. The witnesses signed and attached their smaller seals. Peering over shoulders, Wulf could see that the king’s signature was firm,
Konradus Rex
. Indeed, it looked steadier than the prince’s
Konradus Princeps.
His Highness was definitely shaken. He must be wondering how long Jorgary would be ruled by a corpse.

Nobody asked Wulf to be a witness, which was just as well, because he did not possess as much as a signet ring. He was entitled to wear one now, though. An emblem of a wolf and a sword had been his childhood dream. Now something Satanic might be more appropriate: a wolf howling at a crescent moon, perhaps. A wolf, definitely. He would ask Madlenka.

Their business completed, the visitors bowed their respects and took their leave. The prince stomped out the door in obvious fury. He had come to expose the cardinal’s trickery and succeeded only in putting his own seal of approval on it, quite literally. His guards and sycophants hurried after him.

“And what happens now, Your Eminence?” the princess asked eagerly.

The cardinal beamed down at her like a doting grandfather—a doting but triumphant grandfather. “Now we send the agreement off to Rouen by the fastest courier service in Europe. You do understand that the terms are not binding until both parties have signed? I anticipate no last-minute difficulties, but we must not count our dragons until they are hatched, as I once heard your dear mother say. To be honest, I do not foresee that your wedding can be celebrated anytime in the next two years. Not in Jorgary.”

She nodded sadly. No one must mention official mourning, but everyone knew it was looming like a thundercloud.

“If your brother permits, Your Highness,” the old man continued, benevolent as a bishop addressing a class of postulant nuns, “and if a winter journey would not distress you, you might think on being married in Rouen, or perhaps Paris? Paris in the spring is said to be very fair.”

Wulf could only admire the devious gyrations of the old rascal’s mind. Now that he had granted the second in line to the throne a fiancé who might someday be seen as a potential king, she must be evicted from her homeland as fast as possible, to somewhere beyond the reach of perfidy. If Krystof II did prove unmanageable, then the Assembly of Nobles must see no option except to leave the government in the hands of the true and trusty Cardinal Zdenek.

Soon everyone had gone except for the Scarlet Spider, Wulf, and the two friars. Plus the undead king.

Wulf’s hands itched to clasp those precious sheets of vellum, so vital to his happiness and Madlenka’s. “I may now play the fastest courier in Europe, Your Eminence?”

“Shortly,” the cardinal said smugly. The ancient eyes missed nothing, not even Wulf’s impatience. “We must take note of the witnesses and so on, and I need to make arrangements to spare Brother Daniel, so he may accompany you. That was our agreement.”

“It was,” Wulf agreed.

“He will find you when we are ready.” He offered his ring in the sign of dismissal.

CHAPTER
43

Wulf emerged from limbo in a deserted corner of the palace stables. He demanded his horse, and watched as Morningstar was saddled up. With two or three hours before his sunset deadline, he must now turn his attention to Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville. It was make or break time. It felt very much like that breathless moment when the lances were couched, when his horse was pounding along the lists toward the other horse approaching, when the crowd was roaring, and a fearful, jarring impact was about to settle who stayed in the saddle, and who flew over his horse’s rump to hit the ground inside sixty pounds of steel. And in this case the stakes could not be higher: the hand of the lady, or the hatch to hell.

As soon as Morningstar was ready, he vaulted into the saddle and rode off through the sleepy Sunday town to the Bacchus. There he tied Morningstar to the hitching rail and ducked through a low doorway into the dim, tiny lobby. Thus his great-great-grandfather must have often come, perhaps even on peaceful Sunday afternoons like this one. The owner he found behind the counter would have been the two-or-three-greats-grandfather of the current one, Master Oldrich, who was standing there now. He was a plump, jovial man, with the oddly babyish appearance that came from a total lack of hair, even eyelashes. He wore an elaborate, old-fashioned red turban that concealed his baldness, and he had painted eyebrows, but the result was still bizarre.

He beamed. “Squire Wulfgang! God bless! Very happy to see you back so…” He hesitated, calculating. Wulf and Otto had visited only three days ago, and they had certainly not had time to ride home and return. “Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing at all. Life is wine and music and the joy of youth. You have a room for me and my dear wife, who will be joining me shortly?”