When the Saints

CHAPTER 6

He did not break the first commandment, because he emerged from limbo directly behind Anton just as the sally port thumped shut at his back. The door itself would have hidden his mysterious materialization from the men inside, and the slight overhang of the arch from any watchers on the walls.

The new outpost Vlad had ordered, a hundred yards down the road at the first bend, comprised a timber breastwork and some blindings to conceal his archers while they reloaded. Those would also prevent the enemy from knowing how many men opposed them, which at present was no more than a dozen. The outpost, in short, was a sham, but the Jorgarian flag flew above it, beside the pennant of the new count of Cardice. If Havel Vranov tried to force his way past, he would be making war on his king. He must not be allowed to see behind the blindings, so the parley would have to take place on the far side of it, in no-man’s-land. Bearing a white flag, Arturas led the way down the slushy trail, with count and bishop following, and the gate-crashing Speaker in the rear.

Wulf poked Anton in the back, under his corselet.

Anton warped around and gave him a what-are-you-doing-here glare.

Wulf returned a knowing, you-need-me smirk. After eighteen years’ practice in dealing with each other in war and peace, the brothers needed few words to communicate. Anton pulled a face and returned to attendance on the bishop.

Ugne was not an especially short man, but he appeared so next to Anton. His conspicuous belly and flat-footed waddle made his legs seem short, though, and perhaps they were. He had a very prominent curved nose. Madlenka said that he looked like a parrot, but today he was enveloped in a robe of snowy ermine with a red miter. Wulf decided he was more o Ningha lof a cockatoo.

“Bishop Starsi is a most holy man,” he proclaimed. “His health has been causing concern of late and it is a measure of his dedicated service to the Prince of Peace that he has made the arduous journey over these hills to participate in this holy discourse.”

“I am not yet familiar with the limits of my own fief, my lord bishop,” Anton said. “I do not even know how far away Pelrelm is.”

“Oh, a day’s ride or less to the border. But Pelrelm is much larger than Cardice, and mountainous. The bishop’s see is in Woda, three days’ hard riding away from here in summer, and more in these conditions.”

They should let the holy man make an early start on his homeward journey, Wulf thought. But this was Friday, and on Sunday Anton had arrived in his new domain and thrown the conspiring Havel Vranov out on his ear. There should not have been time since then for him to ride home to Woda and rout the bishop out of bed to come and negotiate a parley. Havel himself certainly dabbled in Satanism, but was his bishop one of the Wise?

The garrison on the redoubt saluted as the dignitaries arrived. They had already opened a gap in the breastwork, so Arturas led the way through and the others followed. Wulf grinned at a couple of faces he recognized from the banquet and took note of them as people whose eyes he might want to borrow in the near future-especially Master Sergeant Jachym, who was currently in command of this suicide squad.

Less traveled, the snow beyond the outpost was less slushy. A few more yards of it brought Wulf to his first view of what lay around the bend. The road descended more steeply down the side of a V notch in the cliff, which it crossed on a trestle bridge. If Anton had shown some foresight, he could have stripped the deck off of it days ago and given himself a better first line of defense.

Havel’s armed escort of at least two hundred mounted men-at-arms and archers was already on the Castle Gallant side of the bridge, drawn up in rows. The Hound and four companions were closer, still on horseback. Apart from the count himself, there was a portly herald in a tabard, a crozier-carrying bishop in miter and vestments, a man in armor, and a boy on a pony. They now began to dismount, with the herald and the man-at-arms assisting the bishop, and the boy taking charge of the horses.

The groups met halfway. The heralds proclaimed a parley. The two bishops exchanged the kiss of peace and blessed the proceedings. The wind was damned cold. Madlenka was up on the roof of the north barbican, bandaging a wounded boy. Idiot woman! A few Wend arrows were still falling.

Starsi was elderly, with the spare, parchment face of an invalid. He was taller than the tubby Ugne, but sorely bent; the bony hand clutching his crozier trembled constantly. He ought to be home in bed, not out here on a mountain trail in winter.

Ugne presented Count Magnus. Anton kissed Starsi’s ring.

Unnecessarily, Starsi introduced Havel Vranov to Ugne. Wulf had not previously set eyes-his own eyes-on the notorious Hound, but he had stolen Looks at him through others’. He was a heavyset man of middle years, wearing a salt-and-pepper beard that made him seem older than he probably was. His nose was generous and aquiline, although not on the same Alpine scale as Ugne’s, and he had a slight limp.

That should have been that for introductions, for attendants did not matter. The man-at-arms was a squire, taller than anyone else there, other than Anton, of course. Although his helmet obscured most of his face, it revealed enough of his chin to show that he was still quite young, not yet fully matured into his height. His nimbus reflected beautifully in his highly polished helmet and cuirass.

Anton could not see that, but he glanced from Wulf to the youth and back again and guessed what was happening. He begged leave to present his brother and squire, Wulfgang Magnus. Wulf dipped a knee in the snow to kiss the bishop’s ring.

Havel Vranov went through much the same procedure to introduce “My nephew and squire, Alojz Zauber.”

Alojz was probably wearing leathers under his armor, so he would not get his knee wet. He might rust, though. He and Wulf exchanged stares, appraising each other. Possibly there should have been smiles and nods to acknowledge their common talent, but two Speakers had died last night, like an exchange of chessmen, so there could be no trust now. They were there to protect their respective principals and keep each other in line. They and the two counts knew the real rules of the game. The bishops and heralds probably did not.

The six conferees had automatically grouped themselves in a circle, each facing his counterpart.

“Havel,” quavered Bishop Starsi, in an ancient, moss-encrusted voice, “is most anxious to do his duty by our sovereign lord, King Konrad the Fifth, beloved of his people and anointed by God. He believes that the schismatic Wends under that dog turd Wartislaw are planning to attack Castle Gallant and wishes to offer his aid. Yet he tells me that Count Magnus has twice refused it.”

“As he should!” Bishop Ugne declaimed. “Your precious count invaded Castle Gallant last night in the company of Satanists. Four of them came in all. I saw their foul witchcraft with my own eyes. They vanished in the plain sight of all. He is a tool of the devil and should be dealt with accordingly.”

The aged Starsi bleated nervously, “Is this true, my son?”

Havel was showing fangs like a charging bear. “Not a word of it! I was helping my men pitch camp on High Meadows last night and can produce innumerable witnesses. Alojz, for one, will support me in that, won’t you, lad? Whatever you think you saw, my lord bishop, can only have been a foul sending, an apparition raised by evil Wend witchcraft. It has been no secret for years that Wartislaw is in league with Satan. No doubt his purpose was to divide Count Magnus and myself so that we are misled by distrust and fail to unite against him.”

“That is the truth,” Alojz said.

Fires of hell! That had been a flash! Wulf had let his thoughts wander to Madlenka again and had failed to keep an eagle’s gaze on Squire Alojz. Glaring at him now, he was awarded a small smirk of triumph, hidden from anyone else by the Pelrelmian’s helmet.

“It… it could have been a sending, I suppose,” Ugne mumbled uncertainly. He looked to Anton, who did not speak.

Alojz had tweaked at least one of the bishops, perhaps both, and Wulf had no idea what he could do about it.

Old Starsi was clearly relieved. “I would believe anything of those schismatics, those children of Satan. Did you seek to exorcize the apparition, Brother? Did you banish it back to the nether regions?”

Ugne made an effort to square shoulders that were not made for squaring. “I tried,” he boomed, “but the sending was too strong for an impromptu invocation. It did not depart until it had left an offering in the shape of a young dog-which, I hasten to add, we ritually burned as we purified the hall where this phantasma had appeared…”

And so on. But a story of four bodily intruders had now become one of a mirage. Alojz had changed Ugne’s mind for him in that flash of talent. Yesterday Wulf had seen Marek do the same thing when the Castle Gallant guards refused him admission, and even Marek had glowed for a moment. Justina would call that obscene abuse of power a crime, but the ability to change people’s memories explained how talent could be kept so secret. Now Bishop Ugne’s report to the archbishop would describe an apparition, and the other clergy would follow his lead when preaching to their flocks, no matter what he had said previously. Wulf was aware of Anton looking sideways at him, either outraged by this absurd volte-face, or perhaps himself uncertain if he had caught a side-splash of miracle.

Tweaking was forbidden by the second commandment, but what was Wulf supposed to do about it? Reverse it? Counter-tweak? How did he defend Anton against that sort of mental aggression? No doubt “brancher” Alojz had been trained by “handler” Vilhelmas and knew all the answers. A week ago Wulf had been thrown all alone into deep water with no help but an anchor, and he was still sinking.

“Can we now discuss the forthcoming attack by the schismatic Wends?” Ugne demanded. His face, always ruddy, was glowing brighter than ever in the icy wind. “What is Havel proposing?”

“I am begging on my knees that I be allowed to fulfill my vows and perform the duty I swore to King Konrad, may God preserve His Majesty!” Havel said. “Count Magnus and I are both lords of the northern marches. Our lands march together. We are bound by fealty and custom to come to each other’s aid when hazard looms, as our respective predecessors have done oftentimes. I know how poorly the late Count Bukovany, may Christ cherish his soul, prepared for this emergency, even after he had been warned of Wartislaw’s intentions. I know that his succ Sthais essor is young and understandably headstrong, but now he and his fief stand in deadly peril. Almost his first act on his accession was to dismiss the landsknecht mercenaries his predecessor had hired and whom he now so sorely needs.”

He paused for breath. Wulf kept his eyes firmly fixed on Alojz, who returned his attention with the amused contempt of one who is ahead on points and need only keep his opponent from scoring in order to win the match.

“You mean,” Anton said sarcastically, “that, having foxes yapping at my north gate, I should now open the south one to wolves? Cardinal Zdenek himself warned me not to make that mistake.”

Alojz rolled his eyes. Wulf did not lower his guard. If he saw the least flicker in the Pelrelmian’s nimbus, he was going rip the kid’s ear off-inside his helmet where no one else would notice.

“I hope you laugh at your folly when your head is mounted on a spike, my lord.” Havel looked to Ugne. “My lord bishop, can you not make this popinjay countling see reason? Can’t you explain to him that my life and lands are as much at risk as his are? If Wartislaw takes Cardice, he will have forced open the front door to Pelrelm also. I have fought the Wends all my life, and to accuse me of treason now is ludicrous!”

“How much did you pay the landsknechte to desert?” Anton asked.

Havel reached for his dagger. The bishops and heralds all wailed that this was a parley.

“You cannot defend this castle without my help!” the Hound yelled.

“I have the help of my brother,” Anton drawled, deliberately provoking the older man. “No, not this one, although he keeps our spirits up with an endless flow of droll stories. I refer to Sir Vladislav Magnus, a knight banneret famed throughout Christendom, who is now supervising our defenses and has assured me that there is no cause for alarm. He can hold off the Wends until it’s so cold their pissers freeze. Which is what the wind is about to do to me, so we should discontinue this meaningless blithering and save your venerable bishop from further distress. Or are you about to threaten to blast your way into my castle and steal it before the Wends do?”

Nobody spoke. Wulf wanted to look at their faces, but dared not take his attention off Alojz.

“That is your last word?” Havel growled at last.

“Almost. If you truly wish to help us,” Anton conceded, “I will admit that we are short of crossbow bolts. So if you care to deliver a wagonload or two to our outpost, I shall happily pay for them at standard rates. The same goes for rent or purchase of any bombards or other firearms you are not using, and of course suitable powder and shot. In short, your help with materiel will be welcome and gratefully acknowledged to His Majesty, but none of your men will set foot inside my gates, and that is final.”

Nicely done. A true patriot should be willing to negotiate on that basis. Wulf raised an eyebrow to invite Alojz’s approval of Anton’s verbal dexterity, but the youth just sneered.

And Havel turned his back. “Come, my lord bishop,” he said. “The boy is mad and we must leave him to God’s mercy.”

“Anton, my son, is this wise?” Ugne muttered.

“My lord bishop,” Anton declared, loud enough for all to hear, “I have knowledge sure as Holy Writ that Havel Vranov is in league with the Pomeranians.” He knew that because Wulf had seen the Hound drinking with the Wends at Long Valley last night; but Wulf could never testify to that in a court of law. “He has taken their silver on the promise of delivering Castle Gallant into their hands. His head will fall in good time to the headsman’s ax, and his soul will writhe in Satan’s furnace for eternity. Take your rabble out of my domain, Hound. You are an irrelevant nuisance.”

Anton took Bishop Ugne’s arm and turned him around. Arturas looked sadly at the opposing herald and both shrugged. The meeting broke up. The workadays went their separate ways, but Alojz Zauber lingered, probably checking that Wulf did not try anything as soon as his back was turned. Wulf also waited.

“How many of you Magnuses are there?” the Pelrelmian demanded. “You must breed like rats.”

“Enough of us to handle the Wends and the Hound without working up a sweat. You’re filling in for Father Vilhelmas, are you?”

The boy bared his teeth. “Assassins!”

“Are we? Ask the late Count Bukovany and his son.”

“Ask your brother the friar.”

“That murder was really stupid,” Wulf said. “For three hundred years, killing Magnuses has b een a swift form of suicide. Go home and talk to your confessor before it’s too late, boy.”

A life-and-death parley had degenerated into a child’s slanging match. Assuming that Anton was now safely out of range, Wulf turned on his heel and strode away.