Madlenka struck her mother again.
At the end of an hour, a truce was declared. Both parties were exhausted and disheveled, but Edita accepted her daughter’s oath, sworn on the Holy Bible, that she was still a virgin. Also, that her contact with the despicable debaucher, Wulfgang, had been limited to one brief kiss, with their mouths closed.
“We didn’t know it could be done otherwise,” Madlenka said sadly, and that almost started the battle again.
She had won it, though, which turned out to be a mistake. Having recovered their poise, they went in search of the count to reassure him on the vital question of his betrothed’s virtue. He was closeted with Bishop Ugne, so they were refused admittance. They spent another hour in the solar, glaring at each other in silence.
When they were at last conducted to Petr’s room, the new count’s temporary chamber, they found him still resting on the bed but looking ominously pleased with himself.
“I am relieved to inform you, my lord,” Edita proclaimed, “that your suspicions about my daughter were baseless. Not that I ever feared otherwise, not for a moment.”
“I am delighted to hear it, my lady. And I have good news for both of you. The lord bishop and I discussed this unusual situation at length over some wine. We agreed that it would be unseemly and irreverent to hold a formal wedding so soon after the funerals. On the other hand, the king’s command makes no mention of delay. His Reverence agrees with me, therefore, that a discreet handfasting would satisfy the spirit of the royal edict, as he put it, without disrespect to the letter. As long as we say suitable vows before witnesses, we shall be married in the eyes of Mother Church. Her formal, public blessing can follow at a more appropriate time.”
Madlenka muttered, “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes,” the count said, beaming. “We must all do our duty and be true to our allegiance, no matter how it may conflict with our personal desires.”
“I entirely agree!” said the countess.
That was when Madlenka realized that winning the battle had lost her the war. Handfasting was an antique, obsolescent custom that hung on only in remote areas where a priest might not be available in time to bless an imminent union in time for it to be holy matrimony instead of sinful fornication. It was unheard of among the nobility, and the countess would normally have rejected the suggestion with outrage. But a formal wedding during double mourning would be even more scandalous. A private handfasting would solve the Madlenka problem admirably.
Count and dowager countess waited expectantly for Madlenka to comment.
She had no defense left. She had promised Wulf that she would wait for him for forty days, but to mention that would make matters much, much worse. To hint that she suspected him of having supernatural powers would be calamitous. To protest that she had known Anton for barely three days would just prompt her mother to remark yet again that she had first met her future husband on the day before their wedding. To defy the king, her legal guardian, would result in a one-way trip along Sprosty Street to the Poor Claires’ convent, there to await His Majesty’s pleasure.
She could not defy the king, the cardinal, the bishop, the count, and her mother all at once. Oh, Wulf, Wulf! I tried!
“As it pleases my lord,” she whispered. “But your wound, my lord? Should you not be resting?”
Anton beamed. “I assure you I have never felt better. I have completely recovered my strength. Now, the bishop suggested suitable words. Who shall we call in as witnesses, Lady Edita?”
“Now?” Madlenka said. “You mean to do this awful thing right away?”
That was exactly what he meant.
There followed a brief ceremony of joining hands and swearing fidelity, a quiet supper for two, and, right after that, Anton solved her virginity problem.
CHAPTER 24
Wulf’s first problem was clothes. He was still wearing remnants of Petr Bukovany’s wardrobe, which were annoyingly long in the legs and sleeves and flatteringly tight across the chest and shoulders. He had assumed that some of the castoffs he had left behind at Dobkov a month ago would still be around, but they had all gone to the servants or been reassembled as something else. Branka skillfully measured him in all directions and organized a make-do sewing session among the female staff who normally made the family’s clothes. The kitchen was happy to provide the second half of a meal he had started some hundreds of miles away, and about fifty adults and children had to mob him and make him welcome.
They all wanted to know where Anton was, what had happened to Wulf’s face, why he had come back, if he was going to stay long. The adult servants were too respectful to ask outright, and quickly hushed the children who did. Father Czcibor, the cadaverous but kindly castle chaplain, was content to wait and hear it in private. Truth be told, it felt very good to be home and to be somebody again after being nobody in Mauvnik.
But after an hour or so, when Otto had managed to dispose of the steward and his helpers, there came the tricky moment. Wulf had to explain that he would very much prefer to tell his story to Otto alone. Branka raised her painted eyebrows very high at that. Father Czcibor lowered his feathery ones, and a winter chill descended, but Otto backed him up.
So shutters were closed, candles lit, and the two brothers settled down in the familiar old solar with a crackling fire and two flagons of Dobkov’s best vintage. Their only companion, Whitetail, curled up at his master’s feet and went to sleep as Wulf began to talk. In the long years of Father’s last illness, Otto had naturally taken over as head of the family. Otto was completely loyal. He would support Wulf even against the Church’s wrath, if he had to.
It was very late and the candles were low when Wulf finished, having revealed everything except his broken heart, which was the crux of the problem. That tragedy was too painful and too hopeless to discuss. He feared that even Otto, who had accepted his claims of miracles without a blink, would not believe that a man could find the love of his life at first glance. Both Dante and Petrarch had done so, but they weren’t around to help with any heartrending verses. And Wulf was no poet.
“That’s all?”
Wulf laughed ruefully and refilled his cup. “Isn’t it enough?”
“No. Who are these Voices? Angels or devils? Who are you that they Speak to you? And what else can we do to help Anton? More wine?”
The answers took the best part of an hour. At the end of it, Otto took up the wine flagon again, but then just sat back, holding it and staring into the fire, thinking. One of the candles flickered and went out. The shadows moved in. Suddenly he said, “Throw another log on,” and filled Wulf’s cup. “So, in effect, you can do anything you want?”
“No!” Wulf said uneasily. “I have to ask. I have to ask aloud. Seems that in anything involving other people, I have to be close to them. I had to be close to Anton before they would heal his wound.” He had not mentioned the curious glimpse he had been given of Otto negotiating in his counting room.
“Mm,” Otto said. “Can you force people to obey you? Or change their minds for them?”
Wulf pulled a face. “I don’t know. Don’t want to know.”
“Remember Great-aunt Kristina, the abbess?”
“No.”
“Of course. I was very young the last time she came visiting. You wouldn’t even have been born. In his last months, Father told me many stories he wanted recorded in the family chronicle, things that it would have been dangerous to write earlier. Kristina was a Speaker. She entered a convent voluntarily and, so far as Father knew, the Church never learned of her powers. She certainly kept them quiet. But she strongly believed that the Voices came from Heaven.”
He sipped wine for a moment, pondering. “Some years ago, in France, there was a girl known as La Pucelle. Ever heard of her?”
“Vaguely.”
“ La Pucelle just means ‘the Maid.’ Her name was Joan, usually known as Joan of Arc. She was an illiterate
