more.”
“Is that unfair, or am I just biased?”
Jurbarkas sighed. “I quite understand your dislike of it, but it is the law. You have never wanted me to lie to you, my dear. The easiest and most practical solution, from everyone’s point of view but yours, is to marry you off to a trusted and experienced soldier, who can be appointed lord of the marches in your father’s place. That way he gets everything except the king’s heriot and your mother’s dowry, so it won’t matter who owns what, and the Silver Road will be securely guarded again.”
“Some fat, battle-scarred, foulmouthed forty-year-old with the manners of a rutting boar?”
The seneschal did not venture an opinion on that. “An experienced soldier is usually old enough to have been married at least once. You can refuse the king’s choice, of course, but his second choice might be worse, and the terms harsher. The third suggestion will be a one-way visit to a nunnery.”
“No choice could be much worse than any of Vranov’s spawn.”
“Perhaps not,” the old man agreed sadly. They began to climb the wooden ramp to the door of the keep, which stood on the highest point in the town. “The townsfolk do not want Vranov as the next count of Cardice, but that is for His Majesty to decide.”
“Can they do anything about it?” she asked, thinking of all those landsknechte, and wondering which side they would choose. At worst, Castle Gallant might be sacked by its own defenders.
“The townsfolk? No.”
“How about the garrison?” she asked, eyeing the two broad backs ahead of her. The seneschal must trust his own nephews or he wouldn’t have brought them to the cathedral. Dare she plot a counterrevolution to drive out the traitor?
“Well, they’re hard to judge…”
“Tell me the numbers!”
Jurbarkas laughed gently. “Your father always said you would make a good warrior! The numbers that matter most are the landsknechte. Captain Ekkehardt’s contract calls for three hundred lances, which means six hundred fighting men plus four or five hundred boys and other supporters. The constable has about five hundred, mostly archers, but that’s only if you include the militia, some of whom may be away on their farms. And there must be a thousand or more able-bodied youths and young men in the town who can handle a pike, or a wood ax, or a scythe in a pinch.”
At the base of the stairwell the nephews stepped aside, their duty done. Madlenka gave them a smile of thanks before she remembered she was wearing her mourning veil. The seneschal was too engrossed to notice them.
Havel Vranov had a couple of hundred men at the gates. How many more were standing ready to come running when he whistled? Her blood chilled at the thought of battle raging in the streets.
“Why did you say that the landsknechte were the ones who mattered?”
“Because they’re trained warriors, my lady, and will obey their leader’s orders. Vranov’s hill men may be savage enough, and will certainly be loyal to their lord, but they cannot have the skill of mercenaries. Few of Kavarskas’s men have had any field experience, and many may refuse to follow him if he betrays his king and the late count’s daughter. The townsmen will be mowed like hay in any serious battle, but there are a lot of them. You see? Nobody can be certain who will come out on top if the swords leap out, but the landsknechte are the safest bet.”
It was horrible.
They halted at the door to the hall, and now it was Giedre’s turn to detach herself.
Standing with one hand on the handle, the seneschal said, “I will speak for you, with your permission, my lady.”
That was about the worst idea she had heard yet. “No! I can speak for myself. If you feel I am making a mistake, you may call me aside for counsel or even speak up and contradict me.” Better that than have her trying to interrupt him, like a badly trained child.
The old man shook his head. “I understand completely your concern about your future marriage, Madlenka, but that is not what the count came here to discuss. I spoke with him only briefly, but he never mentioned that subject. If it comes up, then of course you may speak. I hope you will pardon my saying so, but the worries he brings us are more urgent, and I think the constable will be doing most of the talking. After you, my lady.”
CHAPTER 8
The keep was the stronghold, an ugly stone oblong around a central open bailey. Most of the rooms were cramped and drafty. The great hall was the largest room in Cardice after the nave of St. Andrej’s, but when Petr came back from Mauvnik, he had laughed and said that he had seen privies there that were larger. It was a long, awkwardly narrow room, full of tables and benches, for it was where the castle staff and garrison ate their meals. A small dais at one end marked where the count held court and presided over major festivals; there was a fireplace in one corner. The door was in the center of one of the long sides; glazed windows opposite looked out into the bailey.
There were more people present than Madlenka had expected, because Count Vranov had brought his token bodyguard in with him. Five swordsmen in half armor sat on a bench at the end farthest from the hearth, their surcoats bearing blazons of a hound’s head. Dogs required handlers, so they were flanked by six landsknechte and six archers of the garrison, led by Deputy Constable Dalibor Notivova. It was more worrisome evidence of the divisions in the town.
So much for the chorus. The principals were grouped on two benches before the fire, and they began to rise to greet her as soon as they realized she had arrived. She was so intent on them that an unexpected voice behind her made her jump.
“Why’re you hiding?” The speaker was down on his hands and knees inspecting a mouse hole.
“Leonas!” she said. “You startled me.” She lifted her veil briefly.
The youth scrambled up and leered at her with the wet-lipped, slack-jawed gape of a simpleton. He was one of Vranov’s sons, built like a lance, all height and no width, with a beardless face reddened by windburn and all-over freckles that were much the same shade as his untidy thatch of hair. The count had brought him along to Castle Gallant on both his previous visits, explaining merely that the lad got picked on if he was left behind, a thoughtfulness that belied Havel’s ruthless reputation.
“I know you,” Leonas said proudly.
“And I know you. You’ve grown since you were here last.”
He chortled. “My da says I’ve got a spear I could take boar hunting!”
Um… yes. Unable to think of a suitable response and distressed at the thought of how the half-wit might start using that implement in a year or so, Madlenka just smiled and headed off toward the group by the fire, followed by the seneschal. She lowered her veil again.
There was Vranov, of course, and Constable Kavarskas-what treachery had he been plotting with the Hound? The odious walleyed priest, Father Vilhelmas, was not present. The third man she did not know, but she strongly suspected he must be another of Havel Vranov’s army of sons. Another suitor, third time lucky? He was a bulky man of around thirty, with a battered and scarred face.
The count limped forward to meet her, doffed his hat, and bowed. Despite his evil reputation, he was very ordinary-seeming, and had always been well-mannered when she was present, although Petr had referred to him as a foulmouthed blackguard. He seemed to have suffered no ill effects from a lifetime of raiding and rapine other than a twisted leg. His only concession to age was a beard, gray streaked with brown, and his most noteworthy feature a massive hooked nose. He wore sword and dagger, but not armor.
“Lady Madlenka, I grieve deeply for your tragic loss. Father and brother, and both of them noble men. I have ordered prayers said for them in all the churches in Pelrelm.”
She nodded her thanks, grateful that her face was hidden, regretting that she did not trust the veil enough to stick out her tongue at him. At least Father Vilhelmas was not here, loudly declaiming prayers for her father, who had disliked the squinty priest as much as she did.
