Speak to the Devil

CHAPTER 13

He had done it! With his betrothed on his arm, Anton followed the bishop out of the cathedral. It was less than twelve hours since Cardinal Zdenek had given him an impossible job and he had already completed it. Well, most of it. He had traveled to Cardice faster than anyone had ever done, and his claim to the earldom had been accepted by the bishop, whose lead everyone else would follow. He had booted the Hound back to his kennel and arrested an obvious traitor who could be given a fair trial and then hanged as an example. The Pomeranian problem would have to wait for a day or two, but he could probably talk Wulfgang into dealing with the Wends for him. Which reminded him: he had better check on Wulfie and see if he had recovered yet.

It was nice to be cheered. He could hear the tumult building outside before he even reached the cathedral door. News of the new count must be all over the town already.

And he had acquired a bride who was tall enough to match his height but did not look freakish. He glanced down, she looked up. “Lift your veil,” he said. “I know you’re in mourning, but this is a moment for celebration.” He gave her his best boyish grin. “And try to look as if you feel as happy as I am.”

“I am much happier, my lord.”

“You mustn’t argue with your future husband. The moment we’re alone, I shall give you some intense kissing lessons.”

“I look forward to learning.”

Once she had plumped up after marriage, as women did, she would be a feast. Her eyes were purest blue and the glimpses he had caught of her hair indicated that she was a golden blonde. He admired her pale hands, with their long, supple fingers; the thought of them exploring his body in the near future was very enticing. If she came on in bed half as strong as she had in the cathedral when she shouted at the bishop, then she was going to be a hellcat to romp with. Until then he would have to behave himself, unfortunately, for he mustn’t risk scandal so early in his reign. Tomorrow he would explain why early marriage was a political necessity.

“What was Hound Vranov up to?” he asked.

“I don’t know, my lord. He arrived this morning with two hundred men-at-arms and claimed that the Wends are about to attack and we must accept his son Marijus as keeper of the castle.”

“I see. And whose idea was it to throw your dowry into the pot?”

“Mine,” she confessed, and explained how the seneschal was frightened to spend the king’s money.

“He told you so?”

“Um. No. Marijus did.”

“Then I think I arrived just in time.”

“I believe you. What do you think they were up to?”

“Just guessing, I’d say the money was to buy off the landsknechte and send them packing. Then you would have found the town and castle full of Pelrelmian troops.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “We were all deceived. And when the Wends came?”

“He was probably making up the Wend story,” Anton assured her.

“But both he and Marijus swore on the bone of holy St.-”

“Oaths mean nothing to such men.” Cardinal Zdenek had thought the Wends were a threat, but he needn’t bother her with that news. “If Duke Wartislaw did invade, Vranov might have sold him Castle Gallant for cash and a guarantee that his own county would not be harmed. It doesn’t matter now. Don’t worry about it.”

The streets were too narrow for a true parade, but the stairs along both sides provided handy grandstands for the cheering crowds. The people of Cardice were no longer orphans. They had a count again, a nobleman to defend them and tell them what to do. The king himself had sent him! Men doffed their hats and shouted blessings as he passed. Women curtseyed or even knelt. Gallant was an ants’ nest of tightly packed houses, a firetrap. He would have to do something about that if the Wends did show up.

His first impression of the keep was rank disappointment. It was a fortress, of course, but a fortress did not have to look like an oversized grave marker. The only windows were mere loopholes, so the inside would be dark and probably cramped. His childhood home at Dobkov was a fortress, too, but it stood in rolling green countryside.

Of course the entire castle staff was already lined up at the door to cheer the new count. Once inside, Anton demanded his valet, who turned out to be named Kaspar and old enough to be Cardinal Zdenek’s father. Washing water, Anton demanded, and it must be hot. He ordered the seneschal to organize the exchange of oaths, which he was told would be held in the great hall. He could remember his father having to put up with such ceremonies-cursing them in private before and after, but being invariably courteous and patient during. Count Magnus must practice courteous and patient.

He did not think much of the great hall, which was too narrow for its length, but it did have proper glazed windows, looking out into a central bailey, and from them he could see many other windows. So the keep was hollow, not the solid block he had thought at first glance. His place for the fealty ceremony would be on the big chair at the fireplace end. There was a smaller chair beside it, but he was not going to share the honors with Madlenka just yet. There must be no question that he had been appointed by the king and would rule in his own right, not as her husband.

He kissed her fingers. “Everyone has to come and meet me,” he whispered. “They know you already, so there is no need to bore you with unnecessary introductions to people who have known you all your life. I expect you will need to rest for a little while after all the excitement in the cathedral.”

“As my lord pleases,” she said, blushing. Few things roused him as fast as a girl’s blushes, although he usually saw them in more intimate surroundings.

The seneschal himself began the proceedings, first reading out the king’s edicts, then kneeling on the cushion to put his hands between Anton’s and swear to be his man, of life and limb, and so on. Since there was no constable present, the steward came after him, followed by all the rest in strict order of precedence. Each had to swear allegiance, then be granted protection and a few kind words. This was how the barons of Dobkov did it, so the count of Cardice must do the same, pretending not to be bored to distraction. Thinking lascivious thoughts about his future bride might help.

And where was Wulf? Wulf was important. Anton would need Wulf and his saintly friends to deal with the Wends. How to find him? The answer appeared when the butler withdrew and the next flunky to come hobbling forward was presented as Radim, the count’s secretary. Radim was young, slight, and leaned on a cane because he had a clubfoot, which explained why he had been taught to wield a pen instead of a pitchfork. Ottokar employed a secretary, as had Father before him. Anton knew how a secretary was used.

“How long were you Count Stepan’s secretary?”

“Half a year, my lord. Clerk for a year before that.”

“You write a fair hand?”

The youth nodded, licked his lips, and said, “His Lordship said I did, my lord. And so does the bishop.”

“Good. How many messengers can you call on?”

“Five or six, my lord. Not so many today, unless you give me time to-”

“One or maybe two will suffice.” Anton explained about Wulf.

Radim nodded vigorously, touched his forehead in salute, and limped off to be useful. Anton sat back to receive an oath of allegiance from the castle apothecary.

By the time the parade ended, the boy was back, hovering within sight, but not intruding. He had the answer. “Sir Wulfgang is being cared for in the infirmary, my lord. He has been bled and is under sedation.”

Anton had to be content with that alarming news until he had made a brief speech, promising not to change anything in the ways his predecessor had done things, except to wipe the Wends’ faces in the mud. He accepted three cheers.

Having informed the seneschal that he would like to dine shortly-with the lady Madlenka, if she would be so kind-and would need clothes so he could shed his accursed armor and temporary quarters for himself and Wulf, Anton told Radim to lead him to the infirmary, which meant downstairs, outside, and down the ramp. The crowd had dispersed, although a few knots of people still stood around the little square, all gaping in awe at their new count.

Problems buzzed in Anton’s mind like midges. He had made a good start, but he had not earned his Vaclav sash yet. The Wends were one threat, Havel Vranov was another, and if they were in league, then they could come at Cardice from opposite sides. Had the castle ever had to withstand a two-pronged attack before? And why, in the name of God, had his predecessor ever let all these houses be built inside what was supposed to be a fortress? More immediate and personal was the dangerous question of timing. The common folk would simply be grateful that the king’s man had appeared to take over, but the bishop and other gentry would wonder how the new count had traveled so swiftly. Were there any other gentry? This was border country, thinly inhabited.

Quite apart from having a bad leg, Radim did not even come up to Anton’s shoulder, so Anton was continually having to rein himself and let the boy catch up. The streets were lined along both sides with outdoor staircases. Radim stopped at one that looked just like all the others, but he was clearly waiting to follow the count up it, so up Anton went-ten steps into hell.

The infirmary was a single room containing eight beds with barely enough space to move between them. It was dim, cold, and rank with the lingering stench of sickness and death. The doctor in charge was stooped and ancient; either he or his physician’s robe stank abominably. Possibly both did, but the robe likely carried most of the blame, being encrusted with a lifetime’s supply of blood, phlegm, and pus to show how practiced its wearer was. All the beds were occupied. Two of the patients were mumbling in agony or delirium, three others coughed continually.

For a moment Anton did not recognize the face on the pillow, only the tangle of flaxen hair. Wulf’s eyes and lips were hugely swollen and turning purple. He had been drooling blood. He looked even worse than he had when he was lying unconscious on the hillside trail. Some of his armor was stacked beside the bed, but some wasn’t and had probably been stolen already.

“Wulf? Wulfgang!”

The puffed eyelids flickered and opened to slits. “’Nt’n?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“You… whoreson… Ge’me outa this plague pit.”

“Yes, I will. Sorry, Wulf.”

“He’s confused!” the doctor said petulantly. “Severe trauma, but no bones broken, so far as I can tell under the swelling. I drew twelve ounces of blood and prescribed henbane, hemlock, and laudanum for the pain.”

Anton drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the obnoxious leech.

“My father used to say he had watched twenty-four men die and twenty-two of them were killed by doctors.”

“My lord!”

“Yes, I am, and don’t you forget it. You will not go near this man again, is that clear? I want him moved to the keep instantly. Radim, can you arrange that?”

The youth turned a horrified stare into a grin. “Certainly, my lord. The infirmary must have a stretcher. I’ll find some strong arms.” He hobbled two steps to the door and peered out, then started shouting names.