“Or I,” Anton said. To be told that Wulf’s miracles had twice saved his life so that he could fulfill some Satanic purpose was unacceptable.
“I don’t want to, either,” Wulf said, “but Vilhelmas is dead, the Dominican Azuolas is dead, and now Marek is dead, and…” He shrugged and looked down at the floor. Had he been about to add that the woman he loved was married to the wrong man?
“Where is he? Marek, I mean. I must go and see him.”
“You can’t.”
Otto the peacemaker intervened again. “We decided… We didn’t know how we were going to explain his death, and both town and castle are jumpy enough after Havel’s performance last night… Wulf took him back to Koupel, so the monks could give him Christian burial.”
“I left him in the church,” Wulf muttered, “between matins and lauds. It seemed kindest.”
“We must endow prayers for his soul,” Otto said.
“Is that all?” Anton demanded. “We are beset by enemies on both sides and Marek has been murdered. Anything more to brighten my day?”
Wulf stood up. “Not so far. If you mean has anyone else died of pestilence, then such has not been reported.”
“Don’t even speak of that!” Anton snapped. “Whatever that trollop died of, it was not plague!”
The Speaker looked him over coldly. “That bruise suits you, but I suppose I’d better cure it, just to preserve your confounded dignity as lord of the march. Did I improve your teeth at all?”
“This one’s loose.” Anton pulled down a lip.
The pain disappeared. Wulf turned on his heel and stalked out, shutting the heavy door with a bang.
Otto stood up also. “He’s taking Marek’s death very badly.”
“It’s tough on all of us.”
“You’re not blaming yourself, and he is. He’s starting to doubt his Voices.”
Then Anton realized… “He didn’t Speak to anyone! He cured my lip and my tooth, but he didn’t say anything. He used to pray aloud to his saints.” Or Satan.
Otto shrugged. “He doesn’t do that anymore.” He took two steps toward the door and stopped. “He’s in terrible danger, you know. The Wends will be after him, and so will the Church. I’ve been trying to talk him into going away, somewhere very far away. He refuses.”
Of course he refused. He wanted Madlenka.
“I hope,” Otto continued, “that we can win this war without having to ask for any more aid from him.”
“If it comes from the devil, yes.”
“I’m going to go and help Vlad. You should come and be seen making an inspection. Put your sword on.”
Anton reluctantly grunted agreement and went back into the bedroom. The bed-curtains were open and Madlenka’s face was just visible between quilt and pillow. Her smile of welcome failed to convince.
“Just came for my sword,” he said. “Havel Vranov is laying siege to the south gate. I’ll ring for your maid.” He hauled on the bell rope and went out to join Otto. He would rather have waited until the maid arrived, because Wulf might pop up the moment his back was turned. Although his earldom came directly from the king, not from his marriage to the late count’s daughter, he w ould be the laughingstock of the kingdom if his wife ran off with his younger brother.
CHAPTER 3
Marching along the dim, cold corridors of the keep at Anton’s elbow, Sir Ottokar, thirteenth Baron Magnus of Dobkov, recalled with ironic amusement that he had decided to visit on a mere whim. Normally the journey here and back would have required about three weeks on horseback, but when he had a Speaker in the family both willing and eager to transport him anywhere in the blink of an eye, why not take advantage? True, the Church might thunder that he was imperiling his mortal soul by dealing with the devil, but he found it hard to take that seriously when the reward being offered was so trivial. More important, Otto had known he was the only person who could hope to keep peace in the family. Anton had barely had time to find the latrines in his new castle and was well out of his depth trying to defend it against predatory foes like Duke Wartislaw of Pomerania. Sir Vladislav was a superb warrior, but he had the tact and grace of a hungry bear.
Another smoldering fuse, even more worrisome, was the head-over-heels infatuation between Wulfgang and Madlenka, which they considered love but others might see as first-time adolescent infatuation. Very likely the girl would soon cave in to social and religious pressure and start being properly respectful of her husband. Very few heiresses could choose who they married any more than a sheet of parchment could dictate the terms of an agreement written on it. Men had choice and men could fight for what they wanted. Men fought over women more than they did over anything else except honor-ever since Troy, and probably before that. All Magnuses were stubborn, but since infancy Wulf had set new standards in pigheadedness. Where Anton was the ultimate lecher, Wulf was virtuous and highly disciplined. Love for him, as for his namesake the wolf, would be a lifetime matter, as it was for Otto himself.
Just in case Otto might be tempted to throw up his hands and go home, Anton had admitted that the German mercenaries had fled the town because they believed there was plague there. Otto dared not return to his beloved Branka and the children before he was sure that the rumor was false. If it was.
Anton had already learned his way around his labyrinthine castle. He strode past a staircase without hesitation and brought Otto to a gateway on the same level. The porch was guarded by two men-at-arms, whose breath smoked and whose surcoats were white with frost. They saluted the count, and Otto noticed that Anton remembered to smile in acknowledgment as their father had taught his sons. From there a high drawbridge led across a street to the battlements of the curtain wall that surrounded the town.
Castle Gallant stood on a rocky platform that occupied half the width of the valley. Snow had fallen in the night, so the snow line that had been a third of the way up the mountains yesterday was now down to the tussocky moorland of the valley floor. Steep slopes or cliffs closed off the valley on three sides, with the peaks of the Vysoky Range as a backdrop and the Ruzena River emerging from a gorge about half a mile north of the castle. When Otto leaned through a crenel to peer down the outer face of the wall, he could see it frothing and foaming on its way south to the plains. But between wall and river was a cliff, two hundred feet high.
“It’s an incredible site,” he said. “If we can’t hold it, we deserve to see our heads on pikes.” He shivered. “Does the wind always howl like this?”
“It hasn’t stopped in the five days I’ve been here. Come and see this, though.” Anton headed southward along the parapet until they were clear of the keep and had a view of the town. “We’ll have to tear down houses to make firebreaks.”
Like any walled city, Gallant was a warren of roofs and alleys without a square inch of unused space. The keep towered over it at the eastern edge, with the cathedral nearby and three lesser spires spaced around. One taller building might be the bishop’s palace.
“Stone walls,” Otto said. “What are the roofs made of?” They were white at the moment, with black patches where the snow had already slid off. Chimneys smoked in the sunlight.
“Slate, all of them.”
“Then you don’t need firebreaks. Fire arrows won’t do much damage on stone and slate, especially with all this snow around. And if the enemy breaks in, you want to make them fight door-to-door. Tharotto-doort’s the worst sort of fighting there is. I saw a little of it when the French took Bordeaux. How good is your water supply?”
“Excellent. Never fails, so I’m told.”
“Then forget fire arrows. Set the women and children to topping up water buckets. Order all window shutters to be kept closed, maybe. Not yet, though. Sounds like Vlad’s got them busy already. Let’s go and see.”
They carried on along the top of the wall, urged forward by the spiteful wind and heading for the sounds of hammering. When they moved around to the south side of town, Anton pointed out High Meadows, which was
