someone.”
A monk in a black Benedictine habit came pacing across the grass to tell them that they would not be allowed to speak with Brother Marek. Knowing that a monk would be able to read, Anton dug in his satchel for one of his imposing warrants and negotiations continued.
Eventually, against all odds, instructions arrived to deliver the visitors for inspection by Abbot Bohdan. Clinking and clanking, they followed a disapproving, elderly monk through a cloister, whose pillars were fashioned of lovingly carved stone, then across an obsessively tended garden, until they reached the abbot’s residence abutting the north side of the church.
The abbot was eating breakfast. The abbot did very well for himself. His board was liberally spread with dishes-two of fish, one of eggs, a bowl of frumenty, a basket of apples, a roast goose, and a boiled ox tongue. Apart from a servant who hovered behind him, ready to carve him another slice of goose, or refill his crystal wine cup, he was eating alone, seated at the far end of a table that would hold a dozen. It was furnished with gold candlesticks, the fireplace was carved marble, the walls hung with tapestries, and the mullioned windows shone with butterfly- bright images of saints and angels.
He beckoned with a plump hand for the visitors to approach. The monk who had brought them remained by the door.
As much as a man could swagger in armor, Anton advanced along the hall with his humble servant shuffling at his heels. Wulf’s mouth tasted of vomit and he feared that he would soon start retching again. He left his sallet down and his face hidden. That still felt right, though he didn’t know why.
Abbot Bohdan was undoubtedly the fattest man he had ever seen, swathed in acres of black Benedictine wool. His face hung in folds below eyes like finger holes in dough. His cowl was set back to reveal an almost bald skull and hairless face, both of them beaded with jewels of sweat. He was tearing strips of flesh off a goose drumstick and apparently swallowing them whole. His piggy stare never left the visitors as they advanced.
Anton halted and saluted. “My lord abbot.”
The abbot reached for a gold chalice and took a drink. “What d’ju want with Brother Marek?”
“Oh, largely just a fraternal visit. It has been many years since we saw our good brother.”
“Magnus has renounced the world. To remind him of his former life of sin would not help him in his devotions and dedication. It would be a distraction and an unkindness.”
“There is more. May I speak in complete confidence?” Anton asked airily.
“Why is your companion hiding his face?”
“Because I told him to. He went on a disgusting debauch last night and is currently suffering the penalty. The sight of him is more than the rest of us should have to bear. About Brother Marek?”
Curtains of flesh seemed to sink even lower over the nasty little eyes. “I give you two minutes to explain why I should listen to you for a third.”
“There was an incident back before Brother Marek entered the cloister. I am charged to find out if he remembers anything of it.” Anton was making it up as he went along-Wulf recognized the tone. “I regret that I am forbidden to go into details, but…”
“Forbidden by whom?”
“By the man who gave me this baton.”
The abbot shrugged his great shoulders and took a lengthy draft of wine. “Who is your companion? What is the real reason he refuses to show his face?”
“His name is Wulfgang Magnus. He is my squire and brother to both me and Marek. I told you why he is being disciplined. Father Abbot,” Anton said sharply. “I am on a mission of great moment and did not come all this way out of my road to discuss family trivia. I have the honor to be a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, which numbers among its members many distinguished men, including Cardinal Zdenek and Archbishop Svaty, Primate of Jorgary. I have a royal warrant I could show you, but to brandish that at you would seem like a threat. Come, surely a few minutes’ talk with one of your holy flock cannot imperil his soul irredeemably? Is his faith so delicate? Must I report to my superiors that you were contumacious?”
“Show me your warrant, lad!”
“As you wish, monk, although were you a layman of rank I should call you out on your implications of distrust. Don’t put your greasy fingers on it.”
Anton spread out the scroll and held it up so that Bohdan could read it. He pouted, then licked his thick lips. “This house is dedicated to God. King Konrad’s writ does not run here.”
Anton bowed and tucked the scroll back in his satchel. “I shall so inform His Majesty. He was of a contrary opinion.” He turned on his heel to go.
“Wait.” The abbot belched.
“Good one,” Anton remarked. “Anything else?”
“Have you broken your fast yet?”
“Now that you ask, no, my squire and I have not. Our business is too urgent for delays.”
“Brother Cenek!”
The monk waiting by the door said, “Father Abbot?”
“Conduct Count Magnus and his squire to the guests’ refectory and tell the hosteler to feed them. I shall send in Brother Marek as soon as prime is over.”
“Your Reverence is most gracious,” Anton murmured.
Wulf coughed admiringly as they headed for the door.
CHAPTER 6
The guests’ refectory was a dank, cool room, so long and narrow as to seem more like a corridor than a hall, yet Wulf found it beautiful in a hard, austere way. The tall stained-glass windows were set high enough that no one could see out or in; ribbed arches supported the stone ceiling. Fixed benches stretched the length of each side, with freestanding tables fronting them. It was a fair bet that male and female guests were seated on opposing sides and that a monk stood at the ornate lectern in the center and read Scripture to them during meals.
Lay servants poured water for the visitors to wash their hands, laid trenchers of hard bread before them, and then brought a breakfast of lamprey pie, pike in a thick sauce, eggs, fresh grapes, crusty bread, a mountain of butter, four cheeses, and flagons of Tokay. The sight of food churned Wulf’s stomach, and eating with his sallet down, almost touching his bevor, would be impossible. He raised the helmet briefly to take a swig of the wine, which was surprisingly sweet and seemed to soothe him, confirming that he was suffering from no ordinary colic. He tried not to watch as Anton heaped his trencher and set to work with knife and fingers like a ravening, um, abbot.
“They eat well,” he mumbled around a mouthful.
“Food’s the only excitement they’re allowed.”
“Suppose so. What’re you going to ask Marek?”
“Won’t know till I see him.”
“It’s been four years!”
“Five.” Wulf decided to risk another swallow of the Tokay.
Anton shrugged and cut himself another generous wedge of pie.
Wulf said, “Here he is!”
A diminutive black-robed figure had entered by the main door and was pacing along the refectory with an in- toed gait that Wulf had forgotten but now recognized as painfully familiar; head lowered, hands tucked in sleeves. Vladislav had always referred to Marek as “Midge,” but Vlad cared even less for other people’s feelings than Anton did. If he seemed even smaller now than Wulf remembered, that was quite natural, because Wulf had been only thirteen when his favorite brother was taken away by two Dominican friars and a troop of lancers.
Anton and Wulf jumped up with cries of welcome. Anton stepped around the end of the table to embrace him, armor and all, but Marek blocked him by making the sign of the cross in blessing. Baffled, Anton stopped.
The monk set back his cowl. His face was thin, pinched, with lines around his eyes. His smile was bloodless, professional. “So it really is you! I couldn’t believe it. My little brother Anton a count? And the sash of St. Vaclav?
