those visiting gentry and he could guess what their business was.
Castle Dobkov, although imposing when seen from the outside, was much smaller than Castle Gallant. A lot of it was solid masonry. The living quarters were cramped, and “lesser hall” was a grand name for a staff dining room, capable of feeding about forty people, so that every meal had to be held twice.
Who should be crossing it, though, weighed down by a huge basket of clean laundry, but the baroness herself. Branka was a large and perpetually jolly woman, with rosy cheeks and golden hair, the sort of woman ancient pagans would have worshiped as an embodiment of the Earth Mother. In five years of marriage she had presented Otto with three sets of twins, and promised to continue doing so. She was her own housekeeper, as shown by the big bundle of keys dangling at her waist, and had even been known to dabble in cooking very successfully.
If Branka was not included in the current entertainment of gentry, then the men were talking business, which was exactly what Wulf feared.
She stared at him with eyes wide and mouth agape. “Wulfgang! What brings-”
He pecked her cheek by hugging her, basket and all, then took her burden away. “Just my ghost, but I died bravely. Tell me quick, who are the visiting gentry?”
She pouted. “Not real gentry. Count Dalnice’s steward, a banker, and a notary. What happened to your-”
“Otto is selling off land?”
“He has to, Wulf. The west vineyards.”
“No, he doesn’t have to! I’ve got Vlad’s ransom right here in this bag. All of it. Run and fetch Otto out of there quick, but don’t say why I need to see him and don’t tell the others who I am! Quick, quick, quick!”
Branka could be a human monolith when necessary, but she was very levelheaded and knew when not to argue. She took off like Copper. For a lady of girth, she could move with astonishing speed, spiraling up the stairs two at a time. Wulf ran after her, clutching the laundry as a handicap. At the top he judged that he had narrowed her lead, so he could claim to have won the race, if only barely. Branka headed left, to the counting room. He turned right and threw open the door of the room he had shared with Anton all his life. It had always been cramped, but walls four feet thick had kept monsters out.
The big bed had been replaced by two child-sized cribs. For a moment he stared in shock, and then in bittersweet nostalgia. He should have expected this! A new generation had taken possession. Dobkov was no longer his home; he was a man of the world now, a journeyman Satanist.
He dumped the laundry on a cot, and then knelt to get his face thoroughly washed by Whitetail, who had laboriously followed him upstairs.
And then he saw Otto. Even Vlad would concede that Otto was big. He was twice Wulf’s age and went to war no more, although in his time he had campaigned in France, Austria, and Lithuania. He had been as great a warrior as Father, probably better than Vlad would ever be, because he was smarter. He was still fit, able to vault into the saddle of a sixteen-hand stallion while wearing full armor. Normally he was the most amiable of men, but he had a jaw like a plowshare, which let him look as menacing as basilisks on the rare occasions when he wanted to. This was one of the occasions. He came sweeping along the corridor like a mad bull, dark eyes blazing.
“Wulf? What’s the matter? Why’re you here? Interrupting me!”
Wulf waved him inside and shut the door. “Would I interrupt you if I didn’t have good reason? You haven’t signed yet?”
“I’m just about to. Had ink on the nib.”
Wulf pulled the papers out of the saddlebag. “This is worth twelve hundred florins. This makes eighteen hundred, and this one rounds out the full two thousand.”
He grinned at his oldest brother’s stunned expression. It was a shame Anton could not be there to enjoy the moment.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s a gift from Anton to Vlad. From his wife’s dowry. See this bit? Antonius Magnus Comes Cardici — your little brother is now Count of Cardice, lord of the marches, keeper of Castle Gallant. Also a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav. He already shines brighter than any Magnus has ever done, Baron.”
“Anton, married? Count?” Otto clenched a fist the size of a loaf of bread. “If this is a joke…”
“I swear it is the truth.”
“Then I don’t need to sell the land!” Jubilation swiftly turned to horror. “I shook hands on it, Wulf!”
Selling land was about the worst thing a nobleman could do. It was failure, a betrayal of both ancestors and descendants. The fact that the staggering debt owed to the Bavarian, Baron Emilian, had been incurred by Vlad, not Otto, did nothing to relieve the sense of shame.
Going back on his word would be even worse, though.
“Wait!” Wulf said. “Let me think…” He would never claim that his modest share of Magnus brawn might be offset by having the best brain in the family. That didn’t mean he couldn’t believe it in private, of course. “Circumstances have just changed dramatically, Brother.”
The big man snorted. “You mean the fact that I don’t need the money now? In no way can that justify reneging on an agreement. I needed it when I shook hands.”
“No, I mean that Jorgary is at war. Pomerania has invaded. No one knows what will happen. King Konrad needs all his best warriors back, so he may pay off all the ransoms. The Wends may come this way. Anything is possible.” Only Anton could stop disaster, but he was irrelevant at the moment.
Otto seemed to grow even larger. His face darkened. “Who told you that?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now you just have to trust me. You don’t even need to tell them what the serious news is. It’s a state secret, so you couldn’t tell it even if you knew it. Take my word for it, and give them your own. Tell them the deal is off and their master, Count Whatever, will not want to go through with it anyway when he hears the news.”
Vlad notoriously could not tell a nod from a wink, and Anton wasn’t much better. Marek was a scholar and shrewd, but even he stood in Otto’s shadow when it came to understanding people. Otto could detect a lie at three hundred paces. And he knew Wulf wouldn’t lie to him anyway.
He beamed. “Welcome, then! Make yourself at home. I’ll go and tell them. By the way, who redecorated your face?”
“I did. It’s a long story.”
CHAPTER 23
Some battles are better lost than won. Madlenka should have remembered that, because-Heaven knew- recently the battles between her and her mother had outnumbered the stars. Few with Petr and even fewer with Father, but Mother! At the slightest provocation, they went at it like Crusaders and Saracens.
No! Madlenka refused to undress to be inspected. She was a virgin, she would be a virgin on her wedding night, and she would prove it with the traditional blood spot. Until then, Dowager Countess Edita would have to take her word for it and so would the despicable, insufferable Anton Magnus. She knew instinctively that in his brother’s place, Wulfgang would not care whether she was a virgin or not. It would never occur to him to ask. Admittedly she would very likely have jumped into bed with him that morning if he had suggested such a thing, but he hadn’t, so it was nobody else’s business.
The countess insisted, loudly. Madlenka threatened to tear her eyes out if she tried. The countess threatened to call for help from Neomi and Ivana, her closest cronies. Madlenka swore she would tear their eyes out also, and if they jointly overpowered her now she would excecate all three of them later, two eyeballs at a time. Moreover, she would take the first opportunity to dispose of the hymenal evidence so that the outrage would do them no good in the long run. The countess slapped her. Madlenka slapped her right back.
It was regrettable that Anton had mentioned Wulfgang, because he had to be discussed and described. Only three days Madlenka had known him? And she thought she was in love? Absurd! The countess poured scorn. Love within three days was mere infantile delusion. Love was something that grew and ripened within a marriage, not a passing fit of juvenile lust. As for falling for a penniless younger son… A man of eighteen was barely out of swaddling clothes. No rank, no lands, no prospects? Not even a squire, a varlet? An esquire, practically a serf!
