now trying to catch the stupid courser before he entangled his feet in the reins. More red hot coals in the stomach…
Anton rode up, leading Morningstar. “What’s wrong?” He sounded more irritated than worried, because he thought a warrior must be wrought of steel. He never displayed weakness or sympathy, especially over other people’s suffering.
“Belly cramps this time.” More heaving.
“Why?”
“Pain is the price we must pay.”
“Who says that?”
“St. Helena.”
“Pay for what?”
The conversation was going nowhere. Wulf wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to sit up. His gut twisted again, doubling him over. At about his third try, he succeeded and was able to inspect the scenery. The stone wall ahead, two stories high and windowless, without doubt belonged to a monastery. It was designed to shut out the lustful, sin-ridden world and protect the holy peace that must reign within. Five years poor Marek had spent in there already; there he would die and be buried.
“Have you any idea where we are?” Anton demanded.
“Koupel. I have to speak with Marek before I decide…” Wulf paused, bracing himself to deal with the pain that would come as soon as he tried to rise. “Before I decide.” He struggled to his knees at the second try, except that he doubled over again. It was several more minutes before he managed to clamber aboard his horse with Anton’s help; he certainly did not leap into the saddle as a good rider should. “I have to speak with Marek.”
“Wulf, they won’t let you! Vlad came by here two years ago, when he rode to the war. He tried to see Marek. He wasn’t allowed in.”
Monks had renounced the world. They did not, like friars, wander through it, doing the Lord’s work, helping the poor and the lame. Monks lived segregated, communal lives devoted to praising God.
Wulf forced a smile. “But you will be. Don your pretty ribbon, my lord. Tuck your baton behind your ear. You are Count Magnus of Cardice. You are rich. You can pay for prayers for your predecessor’s soul.”
Anton chuckled at hearing his title. “At the moment I could afford to buy forgiveness for one lecherous wink, nothing more. But if you really must talk to him, it’s worth a try. You’re not scared that they’ll lock you up, too?”
How stupid could a man be? Anton had told him a thousand times that courage wasn’t absence of fear, it was refusing to give in to it. Vlad had not been allowed in; Wulf’s trouble might be the exact opposite. Certainly some of his belly cramps came from sheer terror.
“Of course not. You need my help, and my Voices told me to come here and ask Marek’s advice before I decide. Now start being a lord and act stupid. Should be easy.”
Anton scowled, having no sense of humor where his own dignity was concerned. They set their horses walking along the dusty trail to the gate. This was Sunday. There would be no one working in the fields, and as few as possible tending livestock. The monks would be at prayer, denying the world, rejecting the flesh and the devil.
Anton must be frightened too, if for different reasons. This situation could only be strange and discomfiting for him. Many times in past generations the family had produced Speakers, able to hear Voices and exercise strange supernatural powers. The curse had struck daughters more often than sons, and most of them had been hastily packed off into nunneries before they lost their immortal souls or the neighbors began to gossip. Others had run away and never been heard from again.
Marek had insisted that his Voices were Heaven-sent, not Satanic, and had demanded a chance to keep his freedom, swearing he would never use his powers for evil. He had used them for good, but word had spread and he had been taken away when he was a month or two older than Wulf was now.
By then young Wulfgang, the baby of the family, had been hearing Voices too. Terrified, he had promised never to use his gift-or give in to his curse, whichever was the correct description. Father had decided that he also deserved a chance and had made the rest of the family swear to keep his secret. They had all held to their side of the bargain, though it had been hard on Wulf. The Voices might speak to him at any time without warning. Marek, before being taken away, had told him that he should run as fast as possible to the church and kneel before the altar, holding a crucifix and repeating Hail Marys until the Voices stopped. That always worked eventually, but Wulf had grown thick calluses on his knees through many long nights and days. In time he had learned enough control that others rarely noticed his distraction.
Father Czcibor must have suspected, but had turned a blind eye. Ottokar had asked about the problem once in a while, but Vladislav and Anton never mentioned it. Wulf had assumed that Anton had completely put it out of his mind until that whispered appeal at the hunt. Well, today was providing a rude introduction to Speaking for Anton. He expected to be in control in any dealings with his younger brother and now he wasn’t. No doubt his jaw was very tightly clenched inside his bevor.
A monastery gate always faced west, to the sinful world, just as a church faced east, to the direction of sunrise and hope and the coming of the Kingdom. Hooves clattered on stone as the visitors passed under the arch into a covered passage. A man emerged from a doorway and bowed to the noble visitors. He was a lay servant, not a tonsured monk.
Wulf made a determined effort to control his nausea and do his duty as a squire would. Technically he wasn’t a squire, because Anton had not yet been knighted, but no one else would know that.
“Count Magnus, companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, lord of the marches of Cardice, come in peace.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up like partridges. No doubt he was surprised by a count traveling with a retinue of less than a hundred. Nevertheless, he recognized gentlemen and bowed again. “His Lordship is welcome to Koupel. Does he come seeking hospitality, or healing, or a retreat from the turmoil of the world?” He spoke the common tongue with an accent even worse than Mauvnik’s.
Anton glanced at Wulf’s face, which was probably as green as the hills, and took over the negotiations. “I can tarry only briefly, turning aside from my path for a brief visit with my brother, who is one of the monks here.”
The gatekeeper’s face look on a wary expression. No commoner lightly refused a nobleman, especially one of Anton’s exalted rank. “The rule of St. Benedict does not allow personal visitations, my lord.”
“We shall see if an exception cannot be made in exceptional circumstances. I will speak with the abbot.”
The gatekeeper’s face indicated that he strongly doubted that, but he did not say so. The visitors were admitted to the court, which was the size of a smallish meadow, entirely enclosed by buildings, of which those nearest the gate were obviously stables. The skyline ahead was dominated by the church in the background, its two great towers and rose window looming over many lesser, lower buildings. Those nearest to it, or even attached to it, were housing for the monks, their hospital, library, scriptorium, and other study areas. Nearer the court would be workshops, storerooms, servants’ quarters, and certainly the hostelry, for monasteries offered almost the only safe refuges for travelers. This grassy area was thus a halfway house between the cloister and the world. Only very favored guests would be allowed to proceed farther in, and no inmate would be allowed to venture farther out without special permission, rarely granted. Early on a Sunday morning, there was no one else in sight.
Anton and Wulf dismounted and turned in their weapons; a more senior layman was fetched. Wulf concentrated on controlling his belly spasms and left negotiations to his brother.
The long lad put on quite a show. After years of watching Father and then Ottokar, plus many noble visitors to Dobkov, he knew exactly how to act the lord. He twirled his mustache, he flaunted his baldric and his baton; he used his height to overawe the senior gatekeeper, two successive novices, and three monks of steadily increasing age and rotundity. Best of all, his overwhelming youthful arrogance must seem so insufferable to these persnickety holy recluses that none of his victims would notice the nausea-racked boy behind him.
It took time, though. They sat on a stone bench and watched servants crisscrossing the courtyard, attending to the minimal Sunday chores. Wulf’s innards gradually settled themselves. The bench faced east and the sun bothered him, so he pulled his sallet down, leaving only a narrow gap between its brim and the bevor that protected his chin and mouth.
Anton said, “Why are you hiding?”
Because he felt safer, somehow, not showing his face. But he said, “Sun is bright. Here comes
