Marek ignored him. “Wulfgang, Wulfgang! St. Bernard of Clairvaux taught us that hell is full of good intentions.”
“Then what is Heaven full of?”
“Good deeds and faith. You think you are doing good, but you cannot tell how much evil may follow from your appeals to the Evil One. The Voices offer you anything you can possibly want, just as the Enemy led Our Lord up the mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world. Are you so strong that you can refuse temptation as he did, even after he had fasted forty days and forty nights?”
“There is a price,” Wulf said angrily, meaning headaches and belly pains. He did not want to hear any more of this.
“The price of witchcraft is eternal damnation.”
“You are speaking in circles. First you say that your miracle was good because it brought you here and saved your soul, then that it was evil because Hans sinned later. If I always do my best to use my talents for good, will those acts be held against me on Judgment Day?”
“I told you: asking for things becomes easier and easier. Soon you will stop trying to justify your requests. When did you first hear the Voices?”
“I don’t remember exactly. As a child.”
Marek nodded. “Your first sin was in hearing them at all. Did you understand what they were saying?”
“Not to begin with.”
“No, but your second sin was in listening to them. When did you begin to understand what they were saying?”
“Not long before the Dominicans took you away,” Wulf muttered.
“You were at the end of childhood, the age when we all start to lose our innocence. And when did you discover that they would grant your wishes? When did you first use a whispered little prayer to cheat at archery? To put a horse over a high jump? To make a girl kiss you?”
“Not that!” In truth, Wulf was scared of girls. Their smiles, their scent, their shape, all made him want to do forbidden things, and he believed the mind should rule the body, not the other way around. Until now he had succeeded so well that Father Czcibor seemed to disbelieve him when he made confession, cross-examining him until Wulf wondered if some of the servant girls had been making up stories about him, except he couldn’t imagine why they would.
“Little things like archery,” he admitted. “Yes, I cheated a bit, once or twice, to see if the Voices would help me. But only rabbits were hurt, not people. And I never let anyone see me.” Wulf waited for Anton to say that he hadn’t known Wulf could work miracles, as he had claimed earlier that morning. He didn’t.
Marek sighed. “The girls will follow. ‘It is love,’ you will tell yourself, and you will ask your Voices to bring her to you, or even to make her willing. When did you first ask for a real miracle, something that couldn’t have happened just by chance? Like when I healed the boy’s leg?”
“Two days ago at the hunt.”
“Ah. Tell me about the hunt.”
“Anton spurred down a very steep hill into a diabolical double jump. The riders who tried to follow him were all undone.”
“‘Almost miraculous,’ I think you said. So it was still deniable, if only just?”
“I suppose so.”
“But today?” The monk smiled slyly. “Anton spoke to Cardinal Zdenek a few hours ago. That’s what you said, didn’t you? How did you get here so quickly? We are a long day’s ride from Mauvnik here.”
“I Spoke. I asked.”
“So you rode through limbo from Mauvnik to Koupel? Two witnesses are all the Church needs now, Brother. One to testify at what hour you left the city and another to say when you arrived at the abbey door. Two witnesses and you will be condemned, both of you.”
“And then what?” Anton barked. “Did you take your vows voluntarily? The Church does not compel men to enter the cloister.”
The monk’s bright little eyes shone with sincerity. “But I was guilty of Speaking, my lord count! If I did not confess and repent, I would be tried, and an investigation of Speaking allegations is most arduous, most unpleasant. Eventually, when the Speaker can endure no more, he will either admit his guilt or call out to the devil to rescue him. It was better to repent while I had the chance.”
“And now? Will you betray us?”
Brother Marek clasped his hands as if to pray. He closed his eyes. “If I do not report this conversation to the abbot, I shall be asked at my next confession and be refused absolution unless I make amends.” Then he looked sadly at Wulf. “Repent, Brother, while there is still time! Stay here with us. We can teach you how to resist the devil’s lures. It is a hard road to walk, but I learned, with prayer and penance and the holy brothers’ patience. They taught me how. Repent and stay!”
Wulf shook his head.
“And you are now proposing to ride through limbo to the northern marches?” Marek continued. “Is that what the cardinal wants: to block a war by sending two young men to roast in hell for all eternity?”
Wulf felt the walls of the abbey closing in on him. Possibly also on Anton, as an accomplice. The gates would be locked against them. But anything would be better than a lifetime shut up in a cloister, being turned into a worm like Marek, never running a horse over the hills, never dancing with fair maidens…
“Did it hurt?” the monk asked eagerly, eyes gleaming. “There is always pain, and undeniable witchcraft must have hurt severely.”
“It hurt some,” Wulf admitted, pushing his trencher away. His nausea did seem to be fading, so that he could almost admit that he was hungry. He poured himself more wine.
“And yet you think you can just race all the way from here to the Pomeranian border? I warn you, Brother, if you think you know what pain is now, you cannot imagine what that will cost you. It will last for days. You will go mad, or even die. Many Speakers have died from their torment, for it is far worse than anything that human torturers can inflict. Does this sound like holy miracle or demonic treachery?”
Brother Marek was ablaze now, leaning forward, spraying spit and thumping his fists on the board. “Even if you survive, you may well be beyond help already. I was a neophyte. I had done only one false miracle. An experienced Speaker cannot be taught control, as I was taught when I came here. A hardened practitioner of the black art is too dangerous to restrain. Stay your present course and soon the only way to stop you summoning the devil will be to burn out your tongue!”
“So you are going to report this conversation to Abbot Bohdan?” Anton asked. “Back at Dobkov, Father and Vlad and Ottokar stood by you. They would have run the troopers out of the county with their lances if the Dominicans had not been there to threaten them with a bishop’s warrant of excommunication. You will now denounce Wulfgang as a Speaker?”
Marek covered his face with his hands. He did not seem to be praying, nor weeping either.
Wulf stood up, sick at heart. “Thank you for your advice, Brother Marek. I was instructed to come and consult you, and you have duly instructed me. I expected to learn from your advice, but I fear I have been warned by your mistakes. If you will show us the way back to the stables, we shall be on our way. We can saddle our mounts ourselves. We don’t want to disturb your brothers’ Sunday devotions, nor your servants’, neither.”
Anton rose also, watching Wulf, letting him lead. That was a first.
Marek sighed and straightened up. He was biting his lip, but now there was a repellent beaten-dog expression in his eyes. “Who,” he murmured softly, “told you to hide your face, Brother?”
“It just felt like a good idea.” Wulf pulled his sallet down again.
“A very good idea.” Louder he added, “Let me show you my herb garden. Not mine, really; our herb garden. You can get from there to the stables, although it is not the most direct route.”
“An excellent idea.” Wulf glanced hopefully at Anton. “That is most kind of you.”
“Are you suggesting,” Anton demanded, “that the monks may try to prevent us leaving here?”
“Not you, my lord,” Marek whispered. “But they might delay your companion… ask questions… demand to see his face, and so on. He may have trouble getting out of the monastery. Hurry! We must be quick.”
