When the Saints

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?”

After a flurry of blessings and congratulations, Oldrich enthused that the Horse Room was available, the best room in the house, top floor, very quiet, and for newlyweds he would cut a special rate. It was Magnus family lore that the Bacchus’s rates were always special and the best room varied every time; but none of the rooms were really bad, which was what mattered.

“That will do splendidly. Has anyone been asking for me?”

“No, squire.”

Wulf had told the prince he was staying here. Evidently Konrad was not yet suspicious enough to think of confirming that.

“If anyone does, then I have been here since Wednesday.”

Nodding vigorously, Oldrich reached under the counter for his slate. “I distinctly remember writing that.”

“When we leave,” Wulf said, “there will be no need to change what you remember writing.” He was being very generous, considering that his pouch did not contain one copper mite. “I did not sleep here last night, though. I was off hunting.”

“I trust your chase was well rewarded?”

“An eight-point stag. His Highness was well pleased.” Wulf hesitated. Esquires were notorious braggarts. Years of denying his Voices had made him unnaturally reticent, but he should stay in character. He must behave like a swordsman, not a sorcerer. “Yesterday His Highness knighted me and appointed me his master of horse.”

Oldrich of course responded with a blizzard of congratulations mixed with compliments on the House of Magnus, but Wulf had noticed the momentary twitch of disapproval from the lashless eyelids. Konrad had done such a splendid job of ruining his own reputation that now Wulf would be tarred with the same brush.

With a final “Please have the lads see to Morningstar,” he headed for the stairs. He trotted up two steep flights and explored a gloomy, squeaky-floored corridor, passing images of a bell, a fish, and a snail, until he found a door with a horse on it. The room was modest in size and cramped by the presence of a single overlarge bed. Oh, Madlenka! But it should be quiet on this side.

Cardinal d’Estouteville was engaged in conversation with a man, probably a young man, from the sound of his voice, but the cardinal’s eyesight was so blurred that Wulf could make out no details. Whatever they were speaking, it did not sound like Italian. It might be French, but if it was, and the other man was who he thought he might be, then it was likely Norman French they were using, and that would be very different from the French of Paris. Not that Wulf could understand a word of either.

He stripped, laid out his Italian outfit on the covers, and set to work to ensorcel it. After a few hastily corrected misjudgments, he made the trunk hose a uniform pale gray and the doublet and coat a somber blue of modest cut and sensible sleeves. When he had dressed again, he was a stylish Jorgarian gentleman.

He still could not Look in on Madlenka. Vlad was stretched out on the bed and staring at the canopy, while Otto gazed fixedly out the window. He went to them.

Otto spun around. “Thank the Lord! You’re safe?”

“So far,” Wulf said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Gallant had fallen and Anton was wounded?”

His brother sighed and avoided his eyes. d his ey#x201C; Because there was nothing you could do. Rumors of Satanism are flying, Wulf. People suspect the Vranovs more than us, but the bishop set up a vigil of two priests at all times in Anton’s room. You could not have meddled this time. They caught him in the street, without a helmet. He took such a terrible cut to the head… You saved his life twice. You have nothing to repent.”

Wulf nodded. It was too late to explain that he had healed Countess Edita in that same room without entering it. Otto’s decision made sense, but the failure would haunt Wulf for years. If he had years.

“What’s your news, Wolfcub?” Vlad growled.

“Nothing much. I am Sir Wulfgang Magnus, the crown prince’s master of horse. I am on my way to Rome to meet with Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville, to negotiate the marriage of Princess Laima, and the Scarlet Spider expects me to rescue his castle from Vranov. Tonight there is going to be a Walpurgis Night party of all the best Satanists in Europe, to which I am invited but from which I may never return.”

“Glad to hear that one of us is still able to hold his head up,” Vlad growled.

“It may be higher yet if it ends on a pike,” Wulf said. “How in hell did you lose the most impregnable castle in Christendom?”

“Gross fornicating incompetence!” Vlad roared. “I made the worst mistake in warfare-I counted on the enemy doing what I wanted him to do! Vranov had been told the river had stopped running, and he could confirm that. His allies were beaten and he had nothing to gain by continuing his rebellion. If he was in any sense sane, he would be halfway home to Woda by now. I went to bed. I woke up with a sword at my throat.”

“You didn’t allow for talent? Sorcery?”

The big man nodded miserably. “I had set guards on the gates, but they must have been as drunk as lords. All the church bells were already ringing, so there was no way to sound the alarm; the whole town was drunk by then. The Satanists brought Vranov’s men right into the keep, I think. They beat us from the inside out.”

Vlad was obviously crushed by his failure. The first commandment forbade such trickery, but once again Vranov had broken the rules.

“I think we can sort it out. What Speaking has done can be undone by Speaking.” Wulf had an appointment to keep. He was also famished. “I must go.”

“God be with you, Brother,” Otto said formally. He was deliberately avoiding emotional farewells, and probably that was wise.

Back at the inn, yesterday’s Brother Daniel, the younger, thinner one, was sitting on the edge of the bed with a document case beside case behim. His head jerked up as if he had been close to falling asleep.

Wulf’s dreams of food faded. “Long hours?”

“Thirty hours a day, eight days a week,” the friar said ruefully. “You are doing well, Sir Wulfgang. The Spider is not easily impressed and rarely gives his trust.”

“The Greeks said we should not judge a man until we know how he dies.”

The friar conceded the point with a sigh. “And that is especially true of Speakers. Open the way, please.”

Wulf extended his hand.

Daniel frowned and then gripped his wrist.

Wulf led him into limbo and closed the gate. “How far does this contract differ from the terms of the Frenchman’s last offer, do you know?”

“Very little. My brother took the Spider’s dictation and wrote the draft for him to edit; I just copied it out in fair. His Eminence altered the order of the clauses, which makes comparison harder. The only change I noticed was omission of a provision that the couple will reside in Jorgary. There’s no prohibition against them choosing to do so, though.”

Except the cardinal’s future displeasure.

“And the dowry kickbacks?”

The friar smiled. “He was quite generous-for him. He rarely settles for less than one hundred per centum. A draft on the Fugger bank for one-quarter of the amount will be supplied as soon as the terms are accepted. The rest will be due on the wedding day, but I am authorized to mention that there may be delays in payments. Likely no one will ever know who pockets what.”

So goes the world. “Then let us see if it is acceptable.”

“Why should it not be?”

“Because the omission you noticed was deliberate. Cardinal d’Estouteville is anxious that his nephew live in Jorgary. Cardinal Zdenek is anxious that he not. Please do not draw attention to the change and pray fervently that the Roman scribes are less observant than you.”

Wulf opened a gate into d’Estouteville’s study. There was no one present.

D’Estouteville was asleep somewhere. So there would be no immediate decision. An old man deserved his nap. The fire had been banked and a warm sun shone beyond the windows. Brother Daniel wandered over there to look out at the city. Wulf eyed the books heaped on the big table and wondered if he dare pry.

Before his conscience and curience andosity could decide on a winner, the door opened to admit two priests, so mismatched that they might have been chosen for comic relief: one tall and cadaverous, the other short and pudgy. The first was a workaday, as was the servant who followed them in. The plump priest was Father Giulio, the Speaker who had fetched Wulf from Cardice to Rome. He wasted no time on formalities.

“Brother,” Giulio said, “we have been sent to examine the documents you bring. We assume that you will wish to be present while we do so.” Taking the friar’s consent for granted, he turned to Wulf. “And I am told that you, my son, have had no chance to eat yet today. If you go with this man, you will be fed.”

Obviously a very detailed watch had been kept over him for the last twenty-four hours, but food was an irresistible offer. He accepted, following the servant out and along a corridor with walls painted in a jarring red above oak wainscot. Their destination was a small, stark room containing only a rectangular table and six chairs. Most likely it was designed for meetings, and it was easy to imagine clerks spreading their exchequer cloth there to tally money. At the moment it was being fitted out as a private dining room, with four men laying out dishes and jabbering among themselves in fast Italian, but never addressing him. He was given water to wash his hands, and offered dishes to accept or refuse. Once his platter was loaded and his goblet filled, the servants departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dishes for seconds. The fare was cold and largely unfamiliar: rice and pasta, two fish of unknown species, roast goose, beans, and fruit.

He had eaten little when his appetite was seriously wounded by the arrival of an elongated, skeletal Dominican. He closed the door in silence and came on silent bare feet to the table, taking the place opposite Wulf. He made no sound even as he moved the stool on the tiled floor. Of course he was Brother Luigi, prior of the Roman Inquisition. He rested his forearms on the table and stared across at Wulf with the austere, accusatory face of a dying Christ, even to the glowing nimbus, lacking only the crown of thorns. He was younger than Wulf remembered.

He did not speak.

Such tricks were intended to frighten Wulf into speaking first, so he carried on with his meal, however hard it was to summon up saliva. He could probably magic enough spit to drown a horse, but then his own nimbus would brighten and give him away. He avoided the drier dishes and concentrated on the fish, which was salty and came with sauce.

“You commune with Satan, Wulfgang.” Luigi’s voice was soft and seductively gentle.

Wulf finished chewing and swallowed. “No I don’t.”

“Then how did you come here from Jorgary today?”

Another mouthful. Eating did give one time to think between comments.

“The same way you left the cardinal’s room yesterday.”

“Even if that were true, it would no, it wout excuse you, Wulfgang. I have ordered a woman’s nipples ripped off with pincers. If you did such a thing, you would be hanged. I did it for the woman’s salvation and the glory of God. I did it in the name of, and with the blessing of, Holy Mother Church.”

There was no way to argue with such madness. The Church defined good and evil, and to even question its definitions was heresy. Wulf carried on eating, and now his saliva flowed more freely. Anger worked better than fear.

“Tell me about Father Azuolas,” Luigi murmured, his voice still sweet as a viol.

Well, Wulf could argue that he had merely come to the aid of Magnus when he was physically assaulted by two men, both much larger than he. He could assert that his shot had only wounded the Dominican, and either he or Brother Lodnicka could have healed him, had Lodnicka not rejected Wulf’s protests and insisted on trying to subdue him. By the time the fight was over, Azuolas had been beyond saving.

Such excuses would be admissions of guilt.

He continued eating.

Luigi continued to stare at him with very dark, somber eyes and an expression of deep sorrow. “You have broken the first commandment.”

Wulf acknowledged that remark with a frown while he chewed. When he had swallowed, he said, “I do honor the Lord. I try to obey His commandments, yet I sin, like all men.”

“I do not mean the first commandment of the ten given to Moses, but the devil’s first commandment.”

“What’s that?”

“That you must use the powers he gives you in secret.”

Any response to that would damn a man. Denial was useless when mere suspicion allowed the use of torture, and confessions extracted by torture were accepted as true. Accusation was as good as proof.

Luigi let the silence drag on a long time before he spoke again. “It is possible that the Holy Father will give you absolution today, Wulfgang.”

“Bravo il papa!”

“And perhaps even an indulgence, also, to remit your penance. He may not, of course. But even if he does, he will not abso lve your future sins. Can you go and sin no more, as Our Lord commanded the woman taken in adultery?”

“Could you?”

“We are discussing the peril to your soul, not mine.”

“I see you love your fellow men, Brother. But your love is so overwhelming that it would destroy them restroy tather than tolerate any deviation from perfection. I don’t think you understand what love truly is.”

Wulf stood up and stepped to the water basin to rinse his hands. He had taken the edge off his hunger and would have to be satisfied by that. What Luigi was hinting, but would never put in words, was that even if the pope absolved him, the Inquisition would not. It would pursue him relentlessly, every day of his life, until it could find cause to charge him with sorcery, and his death for that would avenge Father Azuolas.

The friar rose, fired with a righteousness so intense that it could admit no dissent. “Go and fly, little falcon,” he whispered. “Soar and circle as you will, but one day you will stoop, as falcons do, and then our snares will have you. We will catch your jesses then, falcon, and haul you down.” He turned and padded to the door.

As soon as it closed behind him, Wulf went back to his seat and resumed his meal.