When the Saints

CHAPTER 17

Last night Wulf had been assigned a cubbyhole called the Blue Room, just large enough to hold a bed and a wicker hamper. He had not had a chance to sleep there yet, but he had asked a housekeeper to find him some clothes, and she had apparently succeeded, for the basket was almost full.

As he stripped, he reflected that he had killed men by the hundreds that morning and by thousands in the afternoon. He couldn’t do penance for such Satanism if he went back and forth between Jerusalem and Santiago de Compostela on his knees for the rest of his life.

Bed beckoned, for he had not slept at all last night and very little the two nights before that; but he had an appointment with Justina to discuss what might be done about the Dragon bombard. He had almost certainly solved that problem by himself, and she might refuse to give him any more help than she already had, but he enjoyed talking with her. He had just pulled on his trunk hose and was reaching for a shirt when the light of a nimbus flared up behind him. He whirled around to face the intruder.

For a moment he did not recognize the demure young lady who stood there in a billowing silken ball gown.

“Pretty,” Sybilla said. “Nice muscles.”

He stuffed his arms into the shirt he was holding and hauled the rest of it over his head. “Why don’t you go to hell and drive the devil crazy? Why pick on me?”

She leaned against a bedpost like a cat rubbing itself against a friend’s leg. “Oo! Do I drive you crazy?”

“Not crazy the way you’re crazy. What do you want?”

“You for a pet, but I can’t have you. I came to say goodbye. Dearest Wulfgang, this is farewell! We can never meet again!” She sighed and clasped her hands in an Our Lady of Sorrows pose.

“I am overcome with indescribable emotion.”

That was not the right answer, because she pouted. “I am about to be jessed!”

“Congratulations,” he said, as jessing was obviously something worth bragging about. Justina had dropped hints about jessing. And she had used other falconry terms: cadger, haggard, brancher. If he wasn’t so tired, he could probably work out how a bird could be a stand-in for a Speaker. “Who’s the lucky man?”

“Not a man! A lady.”

She had not answered with scorn, so a man would have been possible. If Wulf baited his hooks carefully, he might even start to learn something about the mysterious Saints.

“Ah, you mean your cadger?”

“Of course!”

“Anyone I know?”

That was again the right question, because she flashed a perfect set of pearl-white teeth at him. If her appearance was at all real, Sybilla truly was as beautiful as she thought she was.

“Certainly not, but you must have heard of her: Anne of France!”

“Sorry. I’m just a backwoods esquire with aspirations.”

The scorn returned. He had been expected to swoon.

“Anne of Beaujeu, then? Sister of King Louis, wife of Peter of Bourbon. She is fourteen. I am to be her mistress of jewels! I shall live at court. Probably never far from her side.”

“Wonderful! Congratulations. What will your duties be, apart from minding the lady’s jewels?”

“Oh…” Sybilla’s shrugs involved much more than just shoulders, and her smile could freeze blood. “Whatever she wants. Within reason, that is.”

“This was your father’s doing, I take it?”

Anne of Beaujeu’s pet witch strolled over to the little mirror to admire herself. “Well, the dean of the College of Cardinals does have influence, you know!”

A hand to wash and be washed by any other, no question. Wulf wondered what the other half of this arrangement was-how much the king of France had paid, in gold or political fav po="0eors, to obtain a sorcerous fixer-bodyguard for his sister.

“And of course my mother is Lady Umbral,” she added.

“I am not familiar with-”

“Prelate of the Saints.” From the way she glanced at him in the mirror, she was dropping hints. She had mentioned the Saints before in a way that suggested a non-standard meaning.

“But the Lady Anne is not another Speaker?”

“Of course not.” Sybilla did not turn.

She had been disappointed to hear him ask such a stupid question. Which was what he had expected. He was beginning to understand now.

At last.

“Well, I must go,” she said. “I have other friends who will be eager to hear my good news.”

“I am very happy for you, and I am sorry for any rude things I said. I am sure you will serve your lady well, and Anne of France is fortunate to have acquired such a promising, er, Speaker?”

Sybilla gave him a contemptuous sidelong glance. “Falcon.”

“Of course. Saints be with you.”

She disappeared into empty air.

He chuckled and laced up his doublet. He thought that Sybilla would make a better guard dog than a falcon, but Anne of Beaujeu should have no trouble keeping her court in line from now on. How soon would she find her tame Speaker flying her, instead of the other way about? The Speakers’ fondness for falconry terms verged on the absurd, but it was an obvious defense against dangerous talk that might be overheard. Falcons were also the fastest-moving creatures in God’s creation, which was probably no coincidence.

He reached for his cloak.

Justina was sitting in the vineyard, apparently just staring at the vines, but possibly Looking through Wulf’s eyes, which suggested the infinite regress of a pair of mirrors.

He stepped through limbo. Near to setting, the sun still shone on golden leaves, and once again the softness of the air took Wulf’s breath away. Justina greeted him with a look of sour dislike, but a bottle of wine and three glasses adorned the table, and she pushed the bottle over to his side. Taking that as an invitation, he sat down.

“You’ve been busy,” she said.

“Very.” Wulf wearily filled one glass and passed it to her. The evening alone was wine, compared to the weather in Ca weem"rdice, and if he drank another drop of the real stuff he would fall asleep. His eyelids were heavy as boots.

“When you went spying on the Wends, did you learn anything of value?”

“Not much.” Enough to do them a world of damage, but he was too ashamed of the carnage to brag about it. “You weren’t watching?”

“You cannot hope to keep a secret around Speakers,” Justina said impatiently, as if he were being stupid, “but sometimes secrets keep themselves. We cannot be in more than two places at once-one place in body and another in mind. You cannot watch someone every minute of every day. I know you took a stupid risk in going there, and for no real gain. Let that be a lesson to you.”

She pulled a face and drank wine as if rinsing away a bad taste. She had been upset enough by Azuolas’s death, and the Long Valley blast must have killed thousands. If she was not aware of that, why did she seem so distressed now?

Snow had stopped falling at Castle Gallant. Anton and Otto were on the roof of the north barbican, inspecting a completed trebuchet. Anton was even congratulating the workers, a courtesy that Otto undoubtedly must have suggested to him, for he would never have thought of it by himself.

Vlad was on foot -which seemed very odd and dangerous- working his way through a litter of broken pine branches that had almost buried the road. He must be in the gorge, where there was no snow falling and not very much light, either. He had a dozen or so men with him, and they were all fighting for every step. What was the big lunk up to? Where were the Wends?

“I agree. Tell me about Elysium.” He waited to see if Justina would answer.

She took a sip of wine. “It’s wherever Lady Umbral happens to be.”

“And Lady Umbral rules the Saints?”

“That brat jabbers far too much. Lady Umbral is our prelate. The pope rules the Church; the voivode rules the Agioi; and Umbral the Saints. People come and go, the names remain.”

“The Saints are a guild of free Speakers, like free masons, bound to no lord?” And the Agioi must be the Greek Orthodox equivalent.

“More or less. The Church captures most Speakers as adolescents; rulers also collect them when they can find them. We survive because we do not raid or proselytize to others. We obey the commandments, and the Church lets us be.”

“But you do favors for rulers, like helping Zdenek out with Castle Gallant.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted.

He suspected that answer fell considerably short of the truth. Helping out kings in trouble would be a highly profitable business.

“So am I to be allowed to join the Saints?”

Justina sighed and refilled her own glass. “No. Your execution of Father Vilhelmas was rank murder. The death of Father Azuolas was another. I have spoken twice with Lady Umbral, and she insists that we cannot shelter a murderer.”

“I see.” Wulf contemplated his future and saw only darkness. No life with Madlenka; no life without her either. How did a man hide from pursuers who could come to him at any time, no matter where he was?

Anton and Otto were still on the roof of the north barbican, staring up the deserted road, waiting for Vlad’s return. The entire sortie party had disappeared into the gorge.

Vlad… Vlad had stopped trying to force his way through the nightmare of deadfall, and was watching a peculiar struggle going on just ahead of him. It looked as if the sortie had finally made contact with one of the Pomeranians, who had tried to run from them. Three of the Cardicians had gone in pursuit over the obstacle course.

Justina said, “I wish I’d gotten to you before you started killing people.”

“My bite has always been faster than my bark,” Wulf said. “But I’m not making excuses. I am sprung of a warrior line. Magnuses kill men and brag about it over dinner. I saw Marek in danger, so I pulled the trigger. I would do it again. If I must pay the price, I won’t whine about it.”

Justina shook her head, staring at him, but with more pity than disapproval. “You had reasons for both killings. You did not start the aggression. A completely impartial court might levy a lesser penalty than death on you.” She was repeating arguments that Lady Umbral must have already rejected. “The Church is not impartial. You killed two priests. We cannot help you escape from that.”

“Would Zdenek get me a royal pardon, if I saved his castle?”

“He might save you from being hanged, if you’d rather be burned. Royal pardons don’t help if the Church convicts you of heresy or witchcraft. And Zdenek will certainly not admit to employing witchcraft. You’re nothing to do with him, my boy. As of today, he’d never even heard of you.”

Which was exactly what Wulf himself had told Anton.

Stars were wakening in an indigo east. Wulf rose, stretched. He was weary, aching through to the marrow. “Excuse me. I think the war’s over for today.”

She nodded. “I wish I could give you better news, squire.”

“="-"›“Not your fault, mine. Is this goodbye?”

“I’m afraid it must be.”

He walked around the table and stooped to kiss her cheek.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s faint, but there’s still a trace of Dobkov in your voice. Thanks for doing what you did, Auntie. I know you’d have helped more if you had been allowed to.”