Speak to the Devil (34 page)

“Odd. What does everyone else say?”

“Everyone else was happy to see them go, my lord.”

And so on.

Bishop Ugne kept asking Anton questions he clearly did not want to answer, so he tried to stay in conversation with Madlenka by asking her to name and discuss particular people. She helped prolong the conversation as much as she could by inquiring about his childhood home at Dobkov.

But then the bishop would snatch him away with another question and Baron Magnus—“Do please call me Otto”—would grab his chance again. He was charming, cultured, and wonderful company. He told a few amusing stories about Anton, but otherwise praised him highly, as was to be expected under the circumstances. He spoke affectionately but solemnly of Brother Marek, hinting that he might be having misgivings about his calling. He even apologized for Sir Vladislav’s rough manners, which he blamed on ten years’ campaigning, but he was obviously proud of his brother’s military reputation.

“What did Sir Vladislav mean when he met Anton and asked if his ankle was ‘all better’?” she asked.

The baron rolled his eyes. “That is typical. When Vlad rode off to the Bavarian war two years ago, Anton was going to go with him as one of his squires. The day before they were due to leave, he broke his ankle, so he couldn’t go. Vlad found it amusing to imply that he’d done it deliberately, out of cowardice. That isn’t funny even among family members, all of whom know that Anton is anything but a coward. He nearly went out of his mind because he had to stay home.”

But what had that to do with her? “And how did he break his ankle?”

Otto sighed. “Just remember that I didn’t bring this up, all right? He slipped while climbing up to a window.”

No doubt it had been a lady’s window and that was why Vladislav had mentioned the matter in front of her. Very funny.

Wulf was at the head of the adjoining table, on the other side of the fireplace, not ten feet away from Ottokar. The brothers could speak to each other quite easily if they wished, but Wulf never once glanced that way, because he would have to acknowledge Madlenka also. The fact that Ottokar likewise did not address him showed that he understood the lovers’ problem.

Indeed, he never even mentioned Wulf to Madlenka except to say that their mother had died bearing him and their father had never remarried. So Wulf, Anton, and even Marek must have been reared by servants. Ottokar was obviously head of the family in more than name. The others clearly deferred to him, so much so that she suspected even Anton might still heed his orders, at least until Anton had grown into his new duties as a feudal landowner. She liked Ottokar.

The first course was removed and the second brought in—swan and roast piglets, beans and a spicy sauce, sweetmeats and fall fruits. The baron and Sir Vladislav went to work again, but she could not face another mouthful. Anton nibbled. The poor would do well out of today’s leftovers.

The wine still flowed. The hall became very noisy, with everyone shouting over the musicians who strolled around. Two boys performed acrobatics; jugglers juggled. As each act ended, Anton dispatched gifts to the performers.

Then the entertainers departed and the servants withdrew to the far end of the hall. Madlenka braced herself for the highlight of the feast.

“My lord?” she murmured.

Anton turned and smiled. “My wife?”

“Have you met Jurgen?”

“Remind me.”

“Your fool. He’s a dwarf, about half your height. He can be very funny, but he’ll certainly be making comments about height and, um, related matters.”

His smiled broadened. “Are you worried that I can’t take jokes, or that I have something to be ashamed of? You know you need not worry about either.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said, although she had serious doubts about
the way Anton took jokes. “I just wanted to warn you. The bugler will give him a fanfare and he’ll enter in a cart pulled by two old hounds. He may be dressed as a Moor or Julius Caesar or the Emperor Barbarossa. You never know what—”

Her voice was drowned out by the shriek of a trumpet from outside the door. The fanfare, played extremely badly, ended in a very vulgar noise that died away into merciful silence. Thus all eyes were on the doorway as Havel Vranov limped into the hall.

For a moment Madlenka’s mind refused to accept what her eyes were seeing—the hooked nose, the burly physique, the bushy dark brows—but there was no doubt that he was the count of Pelrelm. He was not alone, of course. Right on his heels came young Leonas, excitedly clutching something to his chest. Then followed the sinister Father Vilhelmas in his bushy beard and oddly wrong priest’s robes, and, lastly, Marijus, the soldier son whom she would have made keeper of Castle Gallant four days ago, had Anton not appeared so magically in the cathedral.

Surprisingly, the first person to react was Brother Marek. Even before all the visitors were inside the hall, he leapt to his feet, yelling, “No! No! Stop them!” He dodged between the ends of the side table and the high table and ran forward, waving his arms and shouting at the newcomers.

The next was Anton, who may have started at the same time, but had a lot more
up
to leap. He was even louder,
“Stay where you are!”
And then, “Constable, knights! Block them!”

The worthy knights of the county were no-nonsense country lads who welcomed any chance for a rumble. As if they had drilled for it, they overthrew their table, trestles and all, spilling an avalanche of food, drink, and dishes across the
floor, and went charging forward over the debris to form a human wall between the visitors and their liege. No one came armed to a feast, of course, but the Pelrelmians were not armed either. Having no choice in the matter, they stopped.

In a comically delayed reaction, all the women then screamed, including the dowager countess. The only exception was Madlenka, who was wondering where Wulf was. He had been sitting beside the constable just moments ago, but now he was nowhere in sight. The way these Magnuses came and went was eerie to the point of bloodcurdling.

Brother Marek spun around and went back to his place, grinning sheepishly at Anton as if he had just made a complete fool of himself. Madlenka did not know what had provoked his outburst, but she did not think that Marek was foolish at all. Why had the diminutive friar been included in this family invasion of Castle Gallant? Just to enjoy a family reunion? Or for the same reason the squire had been included? Could there be two Speakers among five Magnus brothers? The idea seemed absurd and cruel, but she could not put it out of her mind.

“How dare you enter this house without an invitation?” Anton boomed. High on the dais, in red robes and coronet, arms folded, he dominated the hall so completely that no one else dared to make a sound. “I ordered you out of here four days ago, Pelrelm. Who let you back in?”

Vranov smiled, unabashed. “I’m so sorry we can’t stay longer.”

“I asked how you got in!”

“We just dropped by to offer you our best wishes on your latest concubinage, lad. May it be fruitful! And also, of course, on your amazingly fast recovery from the wound that so nearly killed you on Tuesday.”

“Your wishes are as unwelcome as you are,” Anton retorted. “That heretic priest beside you was leading a troop of Wendish invaders and should be beheaded for treason if he is a Jorgarian, or as an enemy combatant if he is not.”

Vranov looked at the priest in mock surprise. “It would seem he does not want your prayers either, Father.”

Vilhelmas mumbled a reply, but he seemed to be scanning the hall for somebody or something. With eyes askew, he ought to be able to see in two directions at once, unless one eye was good only for casting evil spells on people.

“However,” Vranov continued, “and ignoring your rudeness, we have brought a gift for your lady, a bolt of fine silk from distant Cathay. Marijus?”

The warrior raised his hands to show that he was holding a package that looked the right size to be fabric. Madlenka could almost drool at the thought of such a gift.

“We want none of your trash,” Anton said, speaking strictly for himself. “Constable, escort—”

“I brought the lady a puppy!” Leonas squealed in his childish treble. “I wanna give the puppy to the lady!”

“And no puppies!”

But the boy marched forward and the knights let him through instead of just straightarming him back. Anton drew breath for another bellow.

Madlenka gripped his arm. “Wait! Let him give me the puppy.” He turned to her in anger, but she stood up. “Let me deal with it, I beg you.”

“Woman!” he whispered. “You do not question my authority!”

“It’s a trap to make you look foolish. I’ve seen Vranov do this before. Trust me.”

For a moment, she thought he would yell at her to stay out of men’s business, but then he relented. “All right, the puppy.” He spoke between clenched teeth.

By then the simpleton had reached the dais and was beaming at her.

She held out her hands. “That’s a lovely puppy, Leonas.”

She was on the dais, and the table was between them, but he was tall enough and rangy enough to thrust the smelly, furry morsel right into her waiting hands. It was very young, eyes barely open, and about the same ginger-gold color as he was. It stank.

“Oh, he’s very cute!” she said, wondering how Mother was taking this, because Mother knew her dislike of dogs. “What’s his name?”

The youth’s face fell. “Hasn’t got one.”

“Then we must give him one. Would you mind if I called him Leonas, to remind me of who gave him to me?”

He uttered a single, discordant laugh. “Leonas is my name.”

“Yes, I know. Well, I’ll call him Honey, because he’s honey-colored. Do you like honey cakes, Leonas?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Well have one of these. Take the whole basket and go share them with your Da.”

As Leonas happily went off with the cakes, Anton muttered, “I hope you don’t expect that rat to sleep with us?”

“I hate dogs.”

“Likewise, except for hunting hounds.” Anton returned his attention to the visitors and the human fence watching them. “Constable Notivova, escort Count Vranov to the gate and see him and his friends off.” He sat down.

“Do not trouble yourself, constable,” Vranov said. “A pox on you and yours, Anton Magnus. May this fortress crumble to dust and all who live within it be consumed by worms and torment. May you all burn in hell forever.”

He and his companions vanished from where they stood. For an instant there was absolute silence as the witnesses came to grips with what they had just seen. Then the hall erupted in terror and screaming.

“What charming neighbors you have!” said Ottokar Magnus. “May I refill your wineglass, Countess?”

Until the Pelrelmians crashed the party, Brother Marek had enjoyed the banquet very much, simply because he was left alone. He helped himself to each dish, poured his own wine, and no one paid any attention to him. On his right the affronted priests diligently ignored him, while Vlad, seated at the high table to his left, relentlessly bored Countess Edita with accounts of his youthful military exploits in Burgundy. The only remark he had addressed to Marek had been to ask if this food was better than the monastery’s. The countess had raised an eyebrow at that, no doubt wondering what a friar had to do with a monastery, but she probably assumed that Vlad was drunk, which he wasn’t. Even as a stripling he had always been able to hold more wine than any two other men Marek had ever met. The food was pathetic, but one must make allowances for the banquet having been ordered at very short notice.

He welcomed this neglect because he had not been alone in the last five years. He had slept in a dormitory, eaten in a refectory, studied in classrooms, and worshiped eight times a day in church. Even weeding the herb garden, he had been under the raptorial eye of Brother Lodnicka. Now he was free to do as he pleased. Yes, he must try to
help his brothers defeat the Wends; and yes, the missionaries from Koupel would hunt him down eventually, but just at that moment no one would care if he turned cartwheels or opened a stall and started selling indulgences. It was heaven.

His enjoyment was further increased by the presence of women. Only the dowager countess and countess elect were anywhere close to him, the rest of the female guests being at the far side and beyond the doorway, but there were lithesome servant girls hurrying to and fro. For five years, until yesterday, Marek had not set eyes on a woman. He might be doomed to return to Koupel quite soon, but he might commit a sin or two first.

Wulf, directly across the hall from him, had been seated above Constable Notivova and the knights. They might have snubbed him as the priests were snubbing Marek, but Wulf possessed almost as much native charm as Otto, and soon he and the constable were laughing together, drinking toasts, and sharing jokes with men farther along the table. Wulf and Madlenka were ignoring each other so obviously that they must be either deadly enemies or secret lovers. That should be funny, but it was tragic.

The entertainment was clumsy and crude compared to some acts Marek remembered at Dobkov, but it was a treat after five years of ironclad piety. Then the floor was cleared and a fanfare sounded to proclaim the star of the show, whoever that might be. All eyes turned to the door as a man entered.

There was a Speaker following right behind him. Marek could see the nimbus because he was facing the door and the dark corridor beyond it. Wulf’s halo glowed just as brightly, but Wulf was on the other side of the hall and would not see the newcomer until its wearer had entered the room. Wulf must be warned! Almost before he had time to think, Marek ran around the end of the table and into the center, screaming and waving his hands. Many people cheered, thinking he was part of the act.

He had often been tempted to try something like this in Koupel, and it was a satisfying outrage while it lasted. Then Anton bellowed orders to the knights, they overturned the boards, and the banquet collapsed into a near riot. Wulf was nowhere in sight. Chuckling and satisfied that he had done his part, Marek headed back to his place. He took a celebratory draft of wine. What would Abbot Bohdan say?