A Mankind Witch (8 page)

Erik snagged the flask before Manfred could get to it. "Sheep. My father sells ponies and sheep. We haven't risen to goats yet. And we are here to talk, not drink."

"I can do both, even if you can't," said Manfred. But he made no attempt to take the flask.

Szpak looked at them, his blue-gray eyes round. He shook his head. "The abbot and the proctor-general of Skåne seem to have misled me. I was told you had demanded special deference to your rank, and that you were an idle princeling probably here to cause trouble for the Order."

Manfred snorted. "I'm here to cause trouble, all right. But I've seen more concern for worldly rank among the knights here in Skåne and Småland than in all the chapter houses in the Empire. It's part of the problem here, in my opinion."

The Polish knight-proctor did not disagree with him. "It is not like this in the other chapter houses then? I have only served here and in Lödöse."

"There is always a bit of it," admitted Erik. "It is inevitable, I suppose, as a fair number of the knights are confreres, merely doing three or five years' service. People carry grudges, and a minor landholder has to be wary about, say, offending his overlord's son. But to be fair, the abbots and the senior proctors tend to crush it, hard. They're not confreres merely serving the church for a short time, and the knights have their own lands and charters."

"That doesn't seem to be the case here anyway, Erik," said Manfred. He sat back on the bed. "So, Juzef. Tell me how you came to be here. Tell me about the Knights and their work here in southern Sweden. You were told to nose out what you can. I will tell you directly that we've been sent over here for the same purpose. The Danes have complained to the Emperor Charles Fredrik. There are two sides to every complaint, so I'm here to have a look-see."

"And the Emperor sent someone else to soothe the Danes on her own, which is why Manfred is so irritable," said Erik.

Manfred shook a beefy fist at the Icelander.

Gradually, they got the Polish proctor to talk. Eventually he even told them how he came to be here among the Knights. And they found out why the cabbages elicited such a response.

"Mama came from a good Pomeranian Ritter family. Impoverished, yes. But landholders, who trace their ancestry back sixteen generations. My grandfather had made his fortune dealing in barge loads of cabbages. My great-grandfather was probably a runaway serf. My father still dealt in cabbages, and timber and barley . . . maybe if he'd dealt in fine liquors, or rare perfumes and spices he would have been a little more acceptable. But cabbages!" Juzef waved a languid hand under his nose. "Only the Szpak money did not stink."

Erik snorted. "Isn't it odd how if you pile enough money onto any one spot it loses its taint."

Juzef nodded. "True. Especially when a true nobleman must spend money faster than he can obtain it. My father always said that we never saw them unless they'd come to scrounge. Still, Mama liked to see her kin, and we were happy enough not seeing them that often. But when I was a lad of fifteen, that all changed. You remember the sacking of Breslau? Jagellion decided to punch into the Holy Roman Empire, and as misfortune would have it we were trapped by a party of raiders on the road between Schweidnitz and Hirchberg. They killed our outriders. My older brother, Czeslaw, died in the fight. But the rest of us were taken prisoner. And my father attempted to talk, or, more probably, buy our way out of it. But he was a devout man, and this lot were from some of Jagellion's pagan tribes. He must have said something wrong.

"They sacrificed him. Hung him on a pole with the horse skulls and hides. Had the knights not come to our rescue then, my mother, sister, and I would have been next. My mother had us kneel and pray for his soul." He looked a little ashamed. "I'm afraid I did not pray for Papa. I prayed for our deliverance instead." He sighed. "When I saw those three crosses on the banners—the sun shining on their armor . . . well, I knew then that I owed the same deliverance from evil to others." There was something very intense about the way he said that, that said his hero worship of the order was not quite dead.

He sighed again. "Afterwards . . . my mother went back to her family: now that she was a very wealthy widow, she was acceptable again," he said dryly. "They were only too glad to use their influence to get me a novitiate. It got that awkward Polish name out of the family.

"I wished to be on the Lithuanian front. But . . ." He pulled a face. "Instead, I was sent here. I thought that I would be defending the people and the Holy Church against the forces of darkness. Instead, I seem to be a master of squires."

Erik shrugged. "Without squires, learning to be knights, there'd be no defense for anyone, Juzef. Someone has to do it."

Szpak nodded. "And the truth be told, I enjoy doing it. But I don't like training them up . . . so that they can be part of a lot of minor fights with petty pagan chieftains. So the Order can acquire more land and some more reluctant thralls to become serfs on the Order's lands." He paused and looked at them, as if considering his audience. "If you ask me—and nobody does—all they're doing is uniting the Götar against us."

"Hmm," said Manfred. "And how goes the pastoral work among the Götar? We are, after all, supposed to be guards for the shepherds."

Juzef shrugged unhappily. "The Servants of the Trinity are here, yes. But the monks make poor inroads. There are one or two minor Götar chieftains who have been converted by Danish missionaries with their tribes. They're a thorn in the flesh of the ex-confreres, who claim that their settlements are hideouts for escapees. On the estates the serfs are all herded into the churches every Sunday. But there are still hidden temples to their Wodens found from time to time. There is a Sunday service. The tithes are collected. And that is where it ends."

"And what is the role of the Knights in all this?" asked Erik.

Szpak snorted. "Raids and counter-raids. Petty little skirmishes. We win if they try to fight in the open. So now it's always sneak attacks in heavily forested areas. The Götar jarls and their hearthmen, and a few karls have horses, but mostly they fight on foot. Their horses are smaller and lighter than ours and they're mostly not even shod. When it is a cavalry-to-cavalry encounter we always win. So they choose their ground. Then there are reprisal raids against the nearest settlement." He sighed. "But nothing happens at this time of year, at least. Everyone is concentrating on the big enemy now."

"Winter," said Erik with a wry smile.

"Yes. The weather-wise are saying that as the frosts were late, it'll be a bad one. Last year they said the frosts were early so it'd be a bad one," said Juzef with a shrug. "It's a bad time for the peasants regardless, and a good time for me. I get a lot of skills drilled into their thick heads before the boys go out to fight in the springtime."

"Well," said Manfred, "it'll give me a few more weeks to look around and get a complete picture of everything, before there is too much bad weather to move. The combat side might have told me a bit more, but I think I'm getting the idea. We need a few more weeks to think about what needs to be done here."

"You don't seem to be in any hurry to act, Prince Manfred," said Juzef.

Manfred folded his powerful arms. "My . . . other strategy advisor," he said giving Erik an amused smile, "put it to me like this: When you act on the Emperor's behalf, you'd better be sure, and very sure, that you act according to his wishes. You must act in such a way that any credit reflects on the Empire, and any blame is shouldered by yourself. It's not something you can take lightly."

Erik snorted. "Francesca. I give her credit for managing to get it into your thick skull in a mere couple of years. Anyway, I think we should seek our rest, Ritter Szpak. Tomorrow will be more drill, and we can talk further."

The broad-faced Pole got up. "Yes. Thank you, gentlemen." He bit his lip. "I hope . . . well, I hope you can resurrect my reason for joining the Knights of the Holy Trinity. I was thinking of abandoning my vows. It has been troubling me for some time now. Good night." He walked briskly out, closing the heavy door behind him.

When he was well down the passage, Manfred looked at Erik and said, "We'll need some more like him. But he's a good start, eh, Erik?"

"His being a Pole will not help. The Prussians won't take kindly to him."

"With any luck, come spring, Francesca will have a few hundred Danish second sons ready to join up. We decided that would be the easiest way of soothing the Danes and helping the order. Danes don't have anything against Poles."

"Ah, but your problem may be convincing that Pole that everyone in the world doesn't have anything against him," said Erik, with a yawn.

"True," said Manfred. "But then Francesca said that, in her assessment, our problem here was that the Danes and Knights had nothing to offer the locals. Remember. She was saying how in Catalunia the local barons bought into the Empire, because they kept their lands and it was better than that mad archduke of theirs. Strikes me that we have the same problem with the Poles on the border there. The serfs like the Knights better than Jagellion, once they get used to it. And the Knights are not gentle on them, as you remember. It's the minor gentry we need to look at seducing too. In the longer term this Szpak might be useful there, too."

"She's got you thinking in her terms, anyway," said Erik, sardonically. "Be realistic, Manfred. Jagellion's nobles—even the minor knights—are more hidebound than even the Prussians about their birth. Now, let's get some sleep. We'll winnow some more wheat in the morning, and move on to the next chapter house."

Erik was usually right. But he was wrong this time.

The gables of the Odinshof was held up by two massive, ancient, and deeply carved wooden pillars. Outside the grove, the ancient sacred
Vé
circle-grove still stood, the oaks marking the
waerd
of the temple. Every midsummer and again at midwinter the high priest would don
draupnir
, the "dripper"—the heavy, inscribed golden arm ring—and walk the bounds of the
Vé
, walking widdershins around the circle within the circle, chanting the
galdr
, calling the blessing of the one-eyed wanderer down on the kingdom. The sacrifice would be made, and the needfire kindled. Oaths would be sworn and renewed.

It was said that while the circle of wood, stone, and gold remained unbroken, so, too, would the kingdom remain whole.

The screaming carried much farther than the bounds. It carried all the way to the royal hall. Signy bit her lip, knowing that it could not continue much longer. The blood-eagle rite was both terrible and painful. But the victim—with his lungs pulled out of his rib-cage, spread into eagle-wings on his back, and the wounds salted, usually died quickly. The jarl had been both a Vestfolder and an enemy, and, it was reputed, a Christian. He was therefore an appropriate sacrifice. It was a rite that Vortenbras was fond of. He would sever the ribs and pull the lungs out himself. Today three of them would die. One at dawn, one at midday, and one at nightfall.

If possible Signy would ride out. As far out as possible. Hawking, officially, to provide some game for the feasting tonight. Hawking was an activity the dowager queen mother had declared noble and ladylike, so Signy often got away with this. The queen fussed about hats and gloves, declaring nothing so injurious to the feminine complexion as the sun. Albruna avoided it. Signy usually managed to forget either her hat or her gloves, or both.

Today, unfortunately, the queen had been less obliging. When she had come through to Signy's chambers, with three of the coastal jarl's wives in tow, she'd found her stepdaughter already dressed in her riding habit. "No, my dear," the queen had said, with that false sweetness that she sometimes used in front of strangers when addressing her stepdaughter, "Today I need you to join me at the temple."

Signy knew that it was futile to try to resist the honey-sweet pressure that her stepmother could bring to bear. Still, she tried. "It makes me feel sick, Queen Mother." She wrung her hands, and looked pleadingly up at Albruna.

The queen mother always looked like the perfect mother-figure, with her apple-red cheeks, gentle smile, blue-green eyes, thick braided blond hair, and ample bosom to clasp her children to. A part of Signy always hoped that she really would be like that.

"We must show a proper respect, Princess Signy," said Albruna, with just a touch of rigidity in her voice.

Signy had come to dread that rigidity. She bowed her head meekly and said, "Yes, Queen Mama."

The queen mother liked to be thus addressed, at least publicly, and gave her a thin smile. "So, change out of that disreputable garment and come down to my chambers. We ladies will all proceed to the temple together."

Signy noticed that one of the women accompanying Queen Albruna was looking distinctly green herself. Rumor had it that several of the coastal jarls had become Christians in secret. Her father would never have tolerated it, but Vortenbras didn't seem to care. He was keen on the observance of blood rites, which had largely fallen into disuse during her father's rule. But he didn't swear by the Wanderer the way most of the nobility did. It was odd. But then, you didn't question her half-brother Vortenbras. Even as a growing and brutal boy he'd always had the strength of two men. Now that he was full grown, Signy had to admit that he was the image of a true Viking lord. Father had always been proud of his size and strength. Of course, as a girl-child she'd been barely noticed, except when shooting or riding. Then King Olaf had been happy to acknowledge her as his daughter, even if she was a poor scrap of girl. She could ride, really ride, which Vortenbras could not. He always looked like a sack of meal on a horse. And he would turn the most placid mare into a restive thing. Signy had always desperately wished that she could change herself into a boy, and one with Vortenbras's thews. If the queen mother had had her way, the princess would only have ridden when strictly supervised, on the kind of horses Albruna preferred: one step above a fat donkey. But King Olaf had given in to the queen on everything but this. "She's my daughter, dear. She has the right to ride anything that she can, in my stables." If he'd said it once, he'd said it a hundred times. And she could still remember how he'd always gone on, with his characteristic baying laugh. "And that means every horse I have. They follow the little thing around like dogs." So she still got to ride, to hawk, and to shoot. It had become taken for granted that she would, and although Albruna had done her best to restrict it since the king's death, Signy still did. On horseback she did not feel useless.