Speak to the Devil (19 page)

More steps. He turned to watch the
landsknecht
captain emerge through the trapdoor, massive in his padded linen armor, shrewd eyes glittering above a bush of yellow beard.

Anton straightened up. “Good evening to you,
Kommandant
.”

“And to you, Count.” The big man scowled through his hayfield. Looking up to other men must be a rarity for him.

“Come over here.” Anton led him over to the town side. “Barbarossa said this was a perfect place for a fortress, so I’m told.”

“Maybe it was—then.”

“How could Count Stepan have been so incredibly stupid as to let it fill up with houses like this? Even with slate roofs, the place is one big firetrap.” There should be houses for the garrison, yes, but most of the land inside the curtain wall ought to be open space.

Ekkehardt grunted, perhaps surprised that this weedy youth had worked that out. “Pestilence.”

“Explain.”

“I mean, it’s fifty years since pestilence last came through here to weed
it out. The townsfolk breed like mice. The counts didn’t notice, or weren’t hardhearted enough to send them away. Who cares, in peacetime?”

That made sense, but it had been a terrible mistake, and Anton Magnus was going to have a hellish struggle to put it right before the Wends arrived and started sending fire arrows over the walls.

Now to more urgent business … “I haven’t had time to read over your contract,
Kommandant
, but I’m sure we can agree on some increase. What I want right now is your views on how to defend that north road when—”

The heavy guttural voice cut him off. “My advice you can have for free, my lord. But all the money in Jorgary will not keep me and my lads here. We’re packing now and will be gone at dawn.”

After a moment, Anton decided that he had heard that correctly. “Why?” he croaked.

“One of our women is sick. She’s an archer’s wife, so he says, but she takes on others and he gets a cut.”

“All armies have those.”

“But she’s sick, and now she’s showing black lumps in her armpits. We are leaving. No argument. I didn’t want to blurt it out in the church and start a panic.”

“Thank you,” Anton muttered. It was more than a century since the Great Pestilence had devastated Christendom, but local outbursts of plague still happened from time to time, reaping a dreadful harvest. Some wretches suffered for days, but a man in perfect health could find spots on his chest and be dead in a few hours. Livid spots on the skin or lumps in groin or armpit warned of imminent death. The invalids in the infirmary were probably approaching the final stages of the fever. Likely Wulf had caught it from them while he was there. Anton himself might have caught it, and that brainless doctor who had not yet diagnosed the problem was doomed.

When you think things cannot get worse, they always do. All his dreams of glory came tinkling down like icicles in sunshine.

Wulf would tell him that that’s what he got for accepting help from the devil.

Madlenka knocked. In a moment Radim peered out, then emerged and closed the door behind him. He was red-eyed and unshaven, having missed half a night’s sleep. He would not sleep on duty: Father would never have promoted him to secretary had he not been diligent to a fault.

“He’s awake, my lady. He tries not to show it, but I think he’s still in a lot of pain.”

“Well done. We’ll take over now. Go and catch some rest. The count is not up yet.”

As Radim limped off along the corridor, she opened the door and stood aside to let Giedre carry in the tray. The window shutters and the bed curtains were open. Squire Wulfgang turned his head on the pillow to see who had arrived. His face was still swollen and multicolored.

But his eyes were golden!

“Good morning, Squire Wulfgang. I am Madlenka Bukovany. How are you feeling this morning?”

He licked his puffed lips. “Puzzled.”

“Puzzled by what?”

“I hurt so much that this must be purgatory. Why am I seeing angels?”

“I think he’s better,” Giedre said, fussing with the food on the tray.

“Usually I’m much better than that, my lady. Sometimes even witty.”

Madlenka caught herself smiling. “May I present my companion and best friend, Giedre Jurbarkas? Are you hungry? We brought you some beef soup.” She caught up a spare pillow. “Can you raise yourself, or would you rather we lifted you?”

He tried to move and winced.

She said, “Giedre, you go that side.”

Giedre shot her a disapproving look. She would be able to reach him while standing beside the bed, but Madlenka would have to climb up and kneel beside him. Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing won. She lifted her skirts knee-high and went ahead. Ah, if Mother were to make a miracle recovery and walk in to find her daughter in this compromising position? Or, the count? Much worse!

But no one did. The squire pulled up his arms to lever himself, the women took hold of him to help, and Madlenka could see that he was at least half naked. The situation grew more interesting—and incriminating—all the time. Even slight movements seemed to hurt him. He grimaced, but did not complain, and the three of them together lifted him enough to prop him in a reclining position. Despite the discolored swellings, his arms and shoulders were thick, all hard, firm muscle so unlike her own soft flesh. He smelled nice.

Madlenka scrambled off the bed and reached the soup before Giedre did. “Bring that stool!” she commanded and went around to the other side of the bed so she could sit close to him. She was much amused by Giedre’s expression, but unrepentant. Her lord and master, the count, had ordered her to look after his brother.

Wulfgang needed his face shaved and his hair brushed. She might see to those personally. She popped a spoonful of soup in his mouth.

“Too hot? Too cold?”

“Perfect,” he sighed, but it wasn’t clear from the way he was staring at her whether he meant the soup or her. “Tell me what happened yesterday, when Anton arrived.”

So she fed him soup and information. He drank some watered wine but refused anything that needed chewing.

She decided that shaving him would be a little too personal and might cause Giedre to have apoplexy, so she sent for the castle barber. While he was attending to her patient, she went off to check on Mother, who was still curled up like a frightened caterpillar and about as responsive.

When she returned to the squire, she found Anton there. He kissed her on the lips, which was brazen of him in public, but she managed to smile after it was over.

“Your patient is obviously thriving under your care, my lady,” he said.

“I think he’s being very brave.”

“Oh, all we Magnuses are tough. I’m going to go exploring the town. Will you be my guide?”

“I’d love to, but I shall have to go and change first.”

He shrugged, losing interest. “It’s raining, and I know how women hate to get their hair wet. This afternoon, perhaps?” Then he left.

Giedre rolled her eyes. Wulf was frowning.

“Well, at least he’s not in armor now,” she said, going around to the stool beside him. “Do you need anything, squire?”

“I need you to call me Wulf. I also need to stare admiringly at you for about two hours. It is very beneficial for me.”

“Very embarrassing for me, though.”

“Nonsense. You should find it flattering, because I’ve never done it before with anyone.” He had a wonderful smile. “And you mustn’t make fun of my brother’s armor. He’s very proud of it. Did he show you the dent?”

“No,” she said, intrigued. Was her husband-to-be a war hero after all? “Does it record a narrow escape?”

“Very narrow,” Wulf said solemnly. “The mail was specially made for him—that’s traditional, and in his case it had to be, because of his height. Designed in Milan, made in Augsburg; the best. Good armorers prove their work by firing an arquebus at it to show that the ball will not penetrate. Then they engrave a testimonial around the dent. I told him he ought to make doubly sure by proving it again while he was wearing it, and standing closer. That was the narrow escape.”

“He did it?”

“I was afraid he was going to. It took me two hours to talk him out of it.”

Giedre sniggered in the background. Madlenka laughed, then Wulf did too. She suspected there might be a grain of truth in that story, or at least in stories like that—about Anton. Not about Wulfgang.

“What do you do for amusement, here at Castle Gallant?” he asked.

“Hunt,” she said.

“Falconry?”

“Yes, and venery—deer, and mountain goats. Plus boar, hares, badgers, wolves and so on. Very rarely a bear.”

“It sounds like heaven, but too strenuous at the moment. Sing to me.”

Yes, she would enjoy doing that. “Giedre, go fetch my lute, please.”

Giedre rose and went to pull the bell rope. When a page responded, she told him to fetch Madlenka’s lute. Then she sat down and made a face like a gargoyle. Really! Admittedly Madlenka and Squire Wulfgang had been indulging in a little playful flirting. What possible harm could there be in that?

Wulf was feeling much better by afternoon—due, of course, to the superb nursing he was receiving. Madlenka fussed over him like a cat with one kitten. Now she was cutting up roast duck, which smelled delicious.

“Your brother says that you are tougher than boiled leather,” she remarked, popping a piece into the invalid’s mouth.

She must have iron fingers, for it was hot enough to hurt his wounded tongue. He swallowed it quickly. If she fed him molten lead, he would never complain about the service.

“All thanks to him. With four older brothers, I had to be tough to survive. And he was the worst. The best teacher, I mean.”

He was rewarded with another smile, albeit a small one. That made twenty-two on this visit.

“Our herald says that the sash he wears means that he’s a personal friend of the king.”

Wulf urgently needed to confer with Anton and find out what stories he was telling. “If he can defend Castle Gallant from the Wends, he will be the best and dearest friend the king ever had. If he can’t, he will qualify for a state funeral. Probably in two boxes.”

Lady Madlenka raised golden eyebrows. “The smaller one for his head?”

“The larger one for his head.”

Now her smile was a fanfare of trumpets. Count that one twice! She was, without question, the most beautiful woman in the world, with hair like autumn wheat and eyes of summer sky. She was tall and graceful, light on her feet. Her companion Giedre sat silently knitting in the corner of the bedroom, chaperoning her mistress. Although she might be lovely enough on her own, in a dimply, cuddlesome sort of way, she disappeared completely when Madlenka was present.

“Tell me about the other brothers.”

“Why? I’m the only one of the five who’s interesting.”

“Tell me about you, then.”

He tried to shrug and winced instead. “I am popular with dogs, horses, falcons, and honest people. I’m not mean enough to be a soldier, devout enough to be a cleric, or smart enough to be a scholar. I realize that you don’t have failings, so I’ll let you share some of mine.”

He was leaning back against a pile of cushions, being fed like an infant, and it was heavenly. It was true that he still hurt from head to toe, but he could grit his teeth and move if he had to. He didn’t need to be made of boiled leather to do that. And he could not take his eyes away from Madlenka Bukovany. The troubadours had it right about love at first sight. Faster than a thunderbolt. He had never fallen in love before and was already certain that he never would again, which must be a very bad sign.

The strange, wonderful, unbelievable, historical, sensational, exhilarating thing was that the lady Madlenka seemed just as fascinated by him as he was by her. Her eyes kept wandering to his arms, lying on the cover. Granted, they were a spectacular sunset medley of yellow, purple, and green, but she must have seen a man’s arms before. Lately the covers had slipped a little lower on his chest and her gaze kept flickering there now. He suspected that he might be displaying a few golden chest hairs. By the mercy of God, the top cover was a quilt thick enough to hide a terrible bulge that would have shown up through any mere rug or blanket.

“Failings?” Madlenka murmured. “I don’t think I need any failings. Do I have failings, Giedre?”

Giedre said, “I have known you to spend hours raving about young men with honey-colored hair and eyes as yellow as wolves’.”

“I did not call them yellow!” Madlenka bellowed, and then blushed crimson, staring at Wulf in horror.

“Golden, then,” Giedre said, not looking up. “You also went into raptures over muscular arms, as I recall.”

Wulf knew he was blushing also, but perhaps that wouldn’t show through the bruises. “It’s true my arms are yellow,” he said, “and also purple. My legs, now, are red with green stripes, if you’d like a peek. And I think you are the most beautiful lady I have ever set eyes on.”

“That is
enough
!” Giedre said, jumping to her feet. “Out, my lady! This can only lead to trouble.”

“No, it can’t,” Wulf said. “You are affianced to my brother by royal command. I would never try to steal you away from Anton, even if I thought I could. I’m loyal to him and loyal to the king and now I’m loyal to you, too, because you have been kind to me and I won’t return hurt for kindness. I’m sure you would be true to your promise to him anyway. Nothing is going to happen, except that in a week or so, when I’m healed, I’ll jump on a horse and ride away. He doesn’t need me here. Meanwhile, what harm if I stare at you longingly now and again? I will never meet a more beautiful woman.”

He meant every word of this speech, but if he asked St. Helena or St. Victorinus to arrange matters for him, anything might be possible. Marek had warned him about that temptation.

“Where’s the spoon?” Madlenka said briskly, turning away. “I brought some suet pudding with honey. Can you manage it by yourself, do you think?”