A Mankind Witch (14 page)

"We cannot be interrupted right now," said Archimandrite Mecklen firmly, stopping the door with a mailed foot

"I am on the Emperor's business," said the voice outside equally firmly. "You may not hinder those who bear this seal in the completion of their duty." A piece of parchment was pushed through the door crack, and Mecklen hastily stood aside and allowed the man to enter. It was a liberally mud-splattered Imperial messenger. He walked straight to Manfred, bowed, and presented him with a document with the Emperor's own seal on it.

Manfred cracked the Imperial seal. He seemed perfectly calm about it. Only someone who knew him extremely well would have realized he was being deliberately slow and precise. Exercising supreme self-control. Such a message was unlikely to be an order to return for a soirée at the Imperial palace. It was almost certain to be bad news, brought thus by one of Trolliger's special couriers. The mortality of the ruler of the Empire weighed on him. If Charles Fredrik was dying . . . turmoil was inevitable. A bodyguard would rest uneasy until Manfred's cousin Conrad was secure on the throne. Besides, the godar of the Hohenstauffen was important to the Clann Harald. Erik waited, without breathing, watching Manfred read. Why did he read so damn slowly?

Then Manfred exhaled gustily. Erik had obviously not been the only one to be holding his breath. "Well, at least we get to go to Copenhagen on the way. You and I, Erik, are to leave posthaste for Telemark in southern Norway."

"And what are we to do there?" asked Erik, having carefully exhaled so as not to betray his tension.

"Find a thief. And swear an oath," said Manfred, doing his best to smile enigmatically. But the relief turned it into a grin.

Erik noticed the relief also written on the faces of Von Naid, the abbot, and the proctor-general of Skåne. So, plainly, did Manfred. They obviously thought that the matter could now be squirmed out of or covered over. After all, nothing had actually happened . . . bar the death of a few serfs, irrelevant in their minds at least. Manfred shook his head with a kind of stolid finality. "No. The Emperor also said that I must settle matters here before I leave. And I don't believe I need to see or hear any more. Erik?"

Erik drew the sword in one smooth, clean movement. "Their heads, my prince?"

Manfred shook his head again. "No. The Emperor still holds fealty over Von Naid and Meuli, and their men. They must go back to Mainz, I think. It's likely they'll be sent to the Danes for final justice, as I may tell you that my uncle has decided that this territory will officially be ceded to them. I will recommend the settlement of Götar converts in the borderlands. I think that the Danes will agree to that. The Order will remain as guests, retaining a reasonable holding but acquiring no further ones without the approval of the Danish throne. There are, apparently, several hundred new Danish recruits due to join the Order, which will leaven things."

He looked at the proctor-general and the abbot. "Now. As to justice within the Order. The abbot and the former proctor-general—and such Ritters and proctors as are suspected of direct involvement—will be sent to Prussia to the Abbot-General."

He took a deep breath. "Archimandrite Mecklen." He turned to the older knight who had accompanied them from Copenhagen. "You have the authority to act for the Abbot-General. You were sent to lend me authority. I have seen you in the field. Now, I am lending you my authority, here. With the authority vested in me by both the Abbot-General of our Order and of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles Fredrik, I appoint you as the temporary proctor-general of the Knights of the Holy Trinity for the Pastoral district of Skåne. May you serve God, the Order, and the Empire better than your predecessor. Final appointments here must of course await the Order's decisions, but I will dispatch a letter detailing what I have done, and recommending they consult with you about suitable candidates. I want you to see that Von Naid and his companions in crime are transported, in chains, back to Lödöse. His lands and holdings are confiscated. I shall recommend they be awarded to the Christian Götar chieftain Gustav, as a reward for both piety and to help improve his faith," he said, heading toward the door. "And now, Erik and I must pack. The Emperor does not tolerate delays, and we need to get back to Copenhagen."

Back in their quarters, Manfred sat down on the bed with a thump. "I'm not used to being justice almighty."

"You had backup from Mecklen."

"Yes. I think he'll work out well for the task for now. Better to have an outsider. I'd have preferred to see to the reorganization in person, but Uncle says," Manfred, waved the letter, "we need to be in Copenhagen to await the others. What a hardship that will be." He beamed.

"Give," said Erik, suspiciously.

Manfred held the parchment against his chest. "It's an imperial letter addressed to me," he said, attempting to sound lofty and failing to sound anything but guilty.

Erik shook his head. "Give before I have to make you do so, Manfred. Your wrestling is improving, but not that much." He held out his hand.

Manfred held out the letter. "Look, the escort's not really necessary . . ."

Erik took it and read. And then, with it in hand, walked out to find Mecklen. "The prince omitted to mention that the Emperor has requested that the Order provide 'sufficient escort' for Manfred and various clerics who are being sent to the kingdom of Telemark," he said to the new proctor-general of Skåne.

"I had wondered about that," admitted Mecklen. "Should we say one hundred Ritters, under the command of Szpak? I was impressed by his conduct, for all that he is a Pole."

Erik nodded. "When you hear his reason for joining the order you will be even more impressed, Ritter. He's a good man. The Order needs more like him. United in service and faith, if not in origins—as the Order once was."

Mecklen nodded. "Amen. My father said much the same thing. He was a confrere knight, too. Command experience will be good for Szpak. I have plans for him, here on the border."

"Well, have plans for Manfred, too. He's going to argue about this escort."

Mecklen smiled. "That is to be expected too. I will accompany you two to Lödöse, and we will discuss the matter. I expect the size of the escort will decrease but not disappear."

Francesca had been busy, busy, busy. Mostly with talking. Or rather, with listening. If you listened politely and occasionally directed the conversation where you wanted it to go . . . Well, she'd found that an amazing number of people were only too happy to give her a great deal of information they'd possibly have been wiser to keep to themselves. Only a fool played at politics and intrigue—dark and dirty games—in ignorance. Francesca never ceased to be amazed at how many fools, even in the highest places, there seemed to be. Vertical diplomacy was possibly even more entertaining than horizontal diplomacy had been. Right now she was practicing her most successful technique:
impress me with how much you know
. "But Count . . . well, I can't mention his name, but a friend, an admirer, shall we say, told me that the Norse were irrelevant, Baron," she said, artlessly. "Of course," she put a hand on the arm of the man responsible for antipiracy measures along the Danish coast, "he's probably not as well informed as you are."

The baron beamed. "That's hardly surprising m'dear. I have more access to privy information than most. And I have a brain to begin with, unlike Count Rothkilde, although I can't fault his taste in conversational companions. But to call the Norse 'irrelevant' is sheer folly. There has been a real problem developing across the Skagerrak for some time now, and that problem is Telemark. King Olaf was an honorable man, for all that he was a pagan, but his son—the man who is on the throne now—has ambitions."

Francesca raised an arch eyebrow. "And no honor? Why should honor make a difference? I thought the kingdoms over there were too small and too poor to be a threat to a great state like Denmark, allied"—she carefully did not say "vassal"—"to the Holy Roman Empire."

"Ah. Well, you see, Emperor Charles Fredrik forced a treaty on King Olaf, and it has kept them from warring with the Empire, or us, or our shipping. But you are right about the money and the size. Unfortunately, King Olaf turned his military attention elsewhere and before his death had expanded his little kingdom eastward. Of course, the area is mostly mountains and forest . . . but one of those mountains happened to be rich in silver. And the forests make good ship timber. We've got a problem on our doorstep, all right. But don't bother your pretty little head about it."

"I won't. Not with someone like you in charge, Baron," she said admiringly.

He swelled up like a peacock, and told her a great deal more—not that the treaty was in danger of lapsing—which she knew already, but of frantic preparations to ready their sea defenses. Of news from spies among the Svear, where Vortenbras was recruiting. He almost certainly didn't realize how much he was revealing, but Francesca was a skilled inquisitor. The Danes were even ready to call off their feud with the Knights of the Holy Trinity. For now, anyway.

When she wasn't listening, she was reading—sleeping had to take second place—but she could not allow this to take away from her exercise, despite the growing cold. The reading provided her with precise instructions for a very discreet goldsmith.

Manfred and Erik arrived after some two days of travel, with an escort of Knights of the Holy Trinity. Francesca arranged that some seventy minor nobles aand second sons went to watch them at drill.

The monks and nuns arrived the day after that.

Francesca smiled. "My informant tells me that you would know Telemark better than most. They say that you passed through Copenhagen when you fled from there, Brother Ottar. Or should I say Johan?"

Ottar bowed his head. "It was a long time ago, milady. I was a young man. I should perhaps have stayed and died for my belief. But yes. I am from Telemark. My family were killed, burned in our hidden chapel, but I escaped. I sought and found comfort in the arms of the Mother Church. I am not Johan Franklin anymore. I have sworn my vows and found peace. Who told you, milady? Is it wise for the success of our mission that I should go?"

Francesca raised her eyebrows. "I never reveal my sources, Brother. All I will say is that a Danish noble, who had reason to remember you, told me. He is unlikely to tell anyone else. And thirty years, a tonsure, a belly, and a lack of beard will provide a good disguise. No one else will know."

"Except me, Brother," said Manfred. "The Emperor told me in the letter he sent me. And he regards you as our hidden asset, so it is plain that he intended you to go. You'll be safe enough."

Ottar shrugged. "It is not for my own safety I fear, Prince. That is in the hands of God. It is for yours. For all of us who go. But my clan was a minor one, and it is as you say, unlikely that I would be recognized by anyone." He permitted himself a smile. "My abbot granted me permission to lie, should anyone think they recognize me."

"I'd just try and avoid it if I were you, Brother," said Francesca, critically. "You wouldn't be very good at it."

Ottar shook his head ruefully. "True. I can understand why the Emperor himself finds a use for you, milady. You are very astute. I shall, God willing, keep to the truth, by keeping my mouth shut, or at least by speaking only in Frankish."

Francesca smiled and stroked the soft curve of her scented cheek. Manfred had learned to read her subtle signs now. She'd thought of something. Something serious. "It was my understanding that the truce-oath bound Vortenbras from harming emissaries of the Holy Roman Empire. Would they not honor the oath?" She darted a quick glance at Manfred. If she'd got up and said, "Then you are not going," she could hardly have been more clear.

The monk looked utterly shocked. He shook his head, vehemently. "Absolutely, milady! I'm afraid the lack of integrity was the one thing I found difficult to accept here in the Empire. An oath binds. Oath-breakers . . . be they kings or thralls, are outcasts. As much as he might like to, Vortenbras would never openly break that oath. A secret raid, perhaps, that he could blame on rogue elements in his court, on some place that could be argued to be not part of the Empire . . . he might go that far. But the prince could walk unarmored into Vortenbras's court with perfect safety. Until Yuletide, anyway. The worst that Vortenbras could do would be to throw him and the others out of his kingdom. I was born there. That makes me one of his vassals. But that is a chance I would gladly take."

"Well," said Manfred, sitting back on the gilded chair. "You can relax, Francesca. We'll be out of there in a week, if the arm-ring isn't found. So, tell me Brother Ottar. You've been to Kingshall, I presume. What do we expect?"

The elderly, paunchy monk scratched his jaw pensively. "Well, it is not quite like a royal household in the Empire, Prince. The halls are thatched. The place will be full of dogs," said the monk, with a reminiscent smile. "It is much less formal than the courts of the Empire. There are fewer layers of precise hierarchy. It's a bit chaotic from time to time."

"Sounds a bit like Carnac," said Manfred grinning like a shark. "Last time I was home a sow got into the main dining hall. The dogs took after it, so it ran up onto the dais and took shelter under Lady Marchese's skirts. Between her and the pig and the dogs, the table went over. You should have seen the commotion, let alone heard it. I don't know who squealed louder, the pig or Lady Marchese." His shoulders shook slightly. "A very dignified court it was. M'father was the one who caught the pig and hauled it out, too."

"I suppose you were too busy laughing to help," said Erik, with insight based on experience.

Manfred nodded, beaming. "Right you are! So were most of the
duniwasals
there. Marchese is a friend of Mother's from Swabia. She'd been looking down her long nose at the provincials. The men reckoned that it was one fat sow in trouble looking for another."