When the Saints

CHAPTER 38

A horse, a horse…

Wulf went to an empty stall in the Castle Gallant stable. He had never jumped Copper, so the horse he needed was Anton’s Morningstar. Morningstar had cleared the lethal brook at Chestnut Hill for Anton and would remember it. As usual the stable was dim, warm, and musty, full of the inevitable munching sounds and gentle clink of iron on flagstones, but there was a strange lack of voices. A quick look around confirmed that there were no people present, which was a surprise, but a welcome one. Wulf located Morningstar, who knew his voice and was pleased by the prospect of exercise. He made no complaint at being saddled.

Crown Prince Konrad was sitting on a fallen tree within a group of hunt companions, lecturing as usual. “The most I ever won at a single game of Nine Men’s Morris was two hundred florins, as I recall. You were there, weren’t you, Pavel? The night when that Italian bet a night with his mistress and lost?”

“Yes, sire. And the Greek mercenary who won her demanded his valet instead?”

His audience cackled like crows. Wulf recognized several faces from last night’s encounter. They were all fidgeting, impatient to be on their way.

They were almost certainly already at the rendezvous, but Konrad was paying no heed to the scenery, so the secret watcher could not be sure. They must be tired after a day’s hunt and anxious to head home, but none of them would be brave enough to tell Cabbage Head that he was wasting his time waiting around for the braggart Magnus brat to show up. They would rather let him make a fool of himself.

To ride out of nowhere at Chestnut Hill itself would be disastrous if the hunt was already there, so Wulf recalled a wooded hollow where the approach road dipped through a marshy area-not the sort of place people would linger. He arrived there safely, but then ran into an unexpected problem.

It had only been a week since Anton had tricked him into exerting his talent for the first time, but that week had turned the royal forest to red and gold. Trees had changed shape, also, as they shed their burdens of leaves, so that Wulf’s memories of the scenery were no longer accurate and he wound up far from where he meant to be. He needed more practice as a Speaker! Morningstar ran happily enough, enjoying this lush country after days in Gallant’s stable, but Wulf began to panic. He was already late, and now the sun was very close to the skyline. He was an hour’s workaday ride from the rendezvous, and everything would be lost if he failed to show up for his audience. Assuming that there would still be an audience.

F? urthermore, he had ridden Morningstar often enough but never jumped him. This did not bother him, but it might bother Morningstar. A horse could not see past his own long nose to view the landing, so jumping was a great test of how much he trusted his rider. Morningstar had made the impossible double leap once, so perhaps his simple horsey mind would assume that he must be able to do it again. Or he might have been having nightmares about it ever since.

At long last a grassy slope reminded Wulf of one near Chestnut Hill itself. Forgetting about the beech wood on its crest, he concentrated on the grassland he wanted and suddenly saw it through a gateway straight ahead. Morningstar shied slightly at the change of terrain when his hooves hit softer ground, but Wulf kept his head down. Soon they were pounding along the edge of the beeches, with the trees on their left and the green slope down to the stream on their right, gradually becoming steeper as they came around the hill.

But there was no one in sight.

As Zdenek had predicted, Crown Prince Konrad had reneged on their wager. No one would question his right to snub an insolent esquire. Even to send a witness would be an astonishing concession, and to waste his own time on such an absurd scam would make him look ridiculous. Of course the insolent puppy would not have been serious.

And truly, Wulf had not been serious. He had never intended to follow through. Events had forced his hand. Now his noble plan had collapsed in ruins all about him.

Then he saw them, the whole hunt. There were almost twice as many people as last week, so word of his bravado must have spread. Instead of assembling at the top of the slope, as he had expected, they had gathered down by the stream, to have a better view of his dramatic suicide. Already the prince had given up on him and the entire party was moving out. Konrad and his entourage were in the lead, recognizable by their fine garb and grand horses. There were a lot more men-at-arms than last week, too. Princes should not announce their travel plans in advance, and somebody in his guard had been smart enough to see the opportunities for ambush.

Wulf pulled off his hat to wave, then saw that he had been seen. Faint shouts drifted in on the wind. The column broke formation as everyone started heading back to the killing ground.

Suddenly that label seemed very appropriate. He had forgotten just how appallingly long and steep that slope was-grassy, but very nearly a cliff. The stream at the base was hidden within a double line of shrubbery and willows, and recent rain might have raised its level. Wulf’s blessing had undoubtedly saved Anton’s life. Doing it for himself probably required a different sort of witchcraft entirely. Fortunately he really had no alternative, and breaking his neck would be a kinder death than some. Most Magnus males died young.

Besides, since Anton had risked it, there was nothing left to debate.

Three horsemen stood at the edge of the wood, where his death ride would begin. As he drew nearer, they became distinguishable as a priest, a courtier, and a groom. Closer yet, he recognized the courtier as one of Konrad’s favorites, the youth called Augustin.?ed AugusWulf walked Morningstar up to the group and saluted him.

Augustin held up a scarlet cord. “Hands tied behind your back?”

Wulf felt goose bumps rise on his arms. “Of course, Lord Augustin.” He adjusted his bonnet, pulling it down firmly on his head.

The youth smiled sweetly. “Not a lord, just a knight so far. Next month maybe more.” Then his friend would be in a position to grant titles. As a prophecy of the king’s death, that was probably criminal sedition.

“Your pardon, Sir Augustin.”

“But Father Michal wants a word with you first.” Augustin rolled his eyes.

The priest rode forward and Wulf went to meet him, hoping to draw out of earshot of the courtier. He saluted the cleric respectfully. He was an elderly, hunched man, whose sour expression suggested a permanent bellyache.

“What you are planning would be a major sin, my son. You are risking the life the Lord gave you to no holy purpose.”

“I assure you, Father,” Wulf said softly, “that I have a very serious and worthy purpose.”

“Suicide is a mortal sin.”

“I am taking a risk, yes, but my brother did this a week ago and I am a better horseman than he is.”

“Are you in state of grace? How long since you confessed?”

“I spoke with a priest this afternoon, Father. Now please give me your blessing, for I have already kept His Highness waiting long enough.” He removed his bonnet, bowed his head.

The priest blessed him grumpily.

Wulf replaced his hat, looped the reins over his head, and turned to Augustin, who had followed him. He put his wrists together behind his back.

The priest barked, “No!”

The youth agreed with a laugh. “No, Father. His Highness forbade it, but said to try and see if he would be crazy enough to submit.”

Wulf discovered he was crazy enough to argue. “I don’t mind. I did say they could tie my hands.”

“I mind!” Father Michal said. “That would add murder to suicide.”

“Then we are ready, Squire Wulfgang,” Augustin said. “If you are quite sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Go, then. They do say the devil looks after his own!”

Wulf looked at him sharply, but Augustin’s pretty face was showing no superstitious dread, just amusement-and possibly even admiration.

He headed Morningstar over to about the place where Anton had commenced his madness, and the courser suddenly balked. He reared, punching the air with both front hooves and whinnying in terror: Oh, no! Not that again! Big chump! Even without Speaking, Wulf could have handled that nonsense, and now he merely patted the massively muscled neck and tweaked him into fighting mood. You have done this before! You can do it! You are the best, the strongest. Show all those mares down there, stallion!

Then they were off, straight down that impossible cliff. To increase its speed, a horse must lengthen its stride, and soon Morningstar seemed to be flying, feet barely touching the ground. The hedge came rushing at them, and Wulf had only a moment to wish someone could tweak away his own terror before he was fully occupied with getting his horse in position to jump. Up, over the first hedge. Down into the water. And up over the second hedge. Had any horse ever jumped quite that high? And managed to land safely?

Which he did, if only just.

Thump, thump, thump, as Morningstar came to a halt, whinnying in terror. Wulf patted him and calmed him. Otherwise, silence. Not a cheer. Maybe they didn’t believe their own eyes. Did they have Speakers present, who would have seen Wulf blaze like a comet as he came over that second hedge? Morningstar was shaking like an aspen tree. His rider wasn’t much better, waiting for screams of “Satanist!” Wulf slid from the saddle and gave the reins to a wide-eyed groom.

He walked stiffly over to where Crown Prince Konrad was standing, hands on hips and face thrust forward in a massive glower. He looked even uglier in daylight than he had under the lamps last night. His riding cap hid his batwing ears, but the all-over smallpox scars were even more obvious. His teeth were as crooked as a heron’s nest. The only parts of him that a man might envy were the oversized chest and shoulders, but they cruelly emphasized how puny and bowed his legs were. Poor Konrad! He was no older than Wulf and already looked dissipated.

Around him stood his sycophants like a grove of lilies in their hunting clothes of Lincoln green. They cleared a path for the hero, but all faces were staying blank until they saw how their leader responded. The correct reaction would be to praise Wulf’s courage and horsemanship, but was Konrad man enough to do that? He might feel that he had been made to look a fool, although then he would be confessing that he had come to witness a spectacular suicide.

Before Wulf could drop to his knees, one of the courtiers whipped off his cloak and spread it on the mud for him. Several applauded, others scowled because they hadn’t thought of it first. It was a showy gesture, but Wulf’s Italian hose might be worth as much as the cloak. He knelt.

“Incredible!” the prince squeaked. That childish voice was surely the cruelest of all the tricks that malicious Nature had played on him.

The onlookers cheered and shouted agreement.

Wulf said, “I humbly apologize for keeping Your Highness waiting. I confess I lost my way.”

“It was well worth the wait. You have not been knighted yet?”

“No, sire.”

“We must put that to rights. Jozef, give me your sword.” He took it and tapped Wulf on the shoulders. “In recognition of your incredible courage and horsemanship, I dub you Sir Wulfgang Magnus and welcome you to the Christian fellowship of knighthood.”

Again the audience cheered.

About to rise, Wulf realized that he had not yet been told to do so, and remained where he was.

Konrad glanced around the audience to judge its mood. “I cannot make him the king’s master of horse. Yet. But I could appoint him master of mine.”

“It was inexcusably-”

“I have not finished, Sir Wulfgang.”

Wulf gulped into silence.

“After all,” the prince continued, “since my own master of horse died while trying to do what Magnus has just achieved, this stripling is obviously a better rider. You accept the appointment, Sir Wulfgang?”

“It was unpardonably impudent of me to mention that possibility last night, sire. And on hearing now how it touched on the death of Your Highness’s friend, I am doubly ashamed. I shall be rewarded far more than I deserve just to receive Your Highness’s pardon for my crudity. But if Your Highness is serious, then no honor would please me more.”

That was about the truest thing Wulf had said for hours. He had gained the access to Cabbage Head that he would need to keep him tweaked in the right direction. Even years of groveling servitude would be a small price to pay for survival and marriage to Madlenka.

“Then you are appointed and must swear the oath. Where’d our marshal go? Ah, Jozef, give him the words.”

Wulf put his hands within the prince’s and swore in the ancient way to be his man. So now he was on staff! If he hadn’t yet caught up with Anton, he had at least confirmed that the younger Magnuses were rising fast. He stood up and glanced at the faces around him. Their expressions seemed to alternate between narrowed suspicion and fixed rictus smiles. He was an interloper in the hive.

“Time to go, or we’ll be benighted,” Konrad announced, and the chorus murmured the inevitable agreement. He turned to regard Wulf again.

“Where are you living now, Sir Wulfgang?”

“At the Bacchus, sire.”

“We’ll find you quarters in the palace. Speak to Lubos. He’s my chamberlain-the skinny one with buck teeth and the longest cock in the kingdom.”

“Has he met my brother Anton, sire?”

“Oh, was that why Zdenek made him a count?” The future king bellowed with laughter at his own wit, and his future court joined it.