Swords From the West (55 page)

Panna Marya looked up at him, troubled, trying to read his mind. "Last night," she whispered, "when you rode away, I was frightened."

"You?"

"Yes, of the night and being left alone. I-I wanted so to go away with you to Venice and to live."

Mark, late lord of Kerak, swore silently at himself, understanding now for the first time how frightened this girl was and how she had made a feast of supper, the evening before, thinking it might be her last. He shoved away a bawling calf, put his good arm around her, and laughed.

"Panna Marya, the devil take Venice! This is where we belong, both of us!"

That morning began when the sun came through the mist. It was the warm sun of early spring, and when it struck through the pines and into the ferns of the forest it warmed the heart of the Pole named Szary, and the girl lying beside him-close beside him for warmth.

They were lying there shivering, and they heard the melting ice trickling into the hollows of this Baltic forest. They were looking out between the ferns, across the ribbon of river toward the black castle, secure on that far bank.

"It looks," she whispered, "like a buffalo lying down, very comfortably."

"No, it doesn't," Szary objected. "A buffalo gets up after a while, and goes to some place, to fill his belly with grass or with water or with whatever a buffalo likes. This stronghold of Vorberg will not move itself away. No, it has bedded itself down to stay there by the river."

She smiled, while her teeth chattered from cold and excitement. "Vorberg hath no need to go away, Szary" she objected, "to fill its belly. Nay, it sits there atop the river, and it eats our countryside."

"Hush you, chatter bird," he growled. He thought he heard a hunting horn. And he moved his hand stiffly toward the damp, broken branches, putting them on the steaming embers of last night's fire. She did not try to help him, knowing that she might hurt him by that. For this chattering girl, this Yadvi of Krakow, knew Szary's mind, and she wondered often how she might ease that black temper of his until it would not hurt him.

White smoke swirled up from the wet pine branches, making, Yadvi thought, a new white giant's plume in the forest. She knew that Szary wanted this. Careful had he been to make an eye of light by night where the watchers on Vorberg's keep could see it-and now a heavy smoke for the huntsmen to observe.

"They ride this way," said Szary, his head close to the ground. Here, in the ravine, sounds carried far, and he thought that stones rattled down below them.

And Yadvi's head, with its disordered, straw-like hair, pressed close beside his. The devilkin of a girl was lying on her back, her gray eyes half closed. She was hiding the chill and the fear that tore at her; but she could not hide the pulse throbbing in her throat. And she begged something of him, quickly, while the telltale smoke rose over the two of them like a tent. "Szary, do not be angry again. When you feel hot rage, say to yourself it doesn't matter. I want you to think of me, and say that to yourself. Do it."

Her gray eyes, close to his, held him as if her bare arms were around his neck. He looked over her, through the ferns, without seeing anything.

"Do it!"

"Certainly," he grunted.

"Swear it!"

"Yea-by Our Lady."

But his eyes were questing among the ferns for sight of the riders. "Yadvi-you are like a burr under the saddle-you are always sticking close where I have to feel you. Now, please, get on that pony, and get you gone-"

"Swear," her eyes never blinked, "by the bratsva Polskiego. Or I will not go because you will need me to watch after you like a footless child-"

He could hear brush crackling below him, and the echo of a man's shout, and quick anger ran like fire through his blood. "By the hide and horns of the Lord of-"

"Hush, Szary!"

He slapped her face and thrust her away, toward the tethered horses.

Years before this, Szary had been able to ride with the bratsva Pol- skiego-the winged knights of Poland. Then he could toss the twelvefoot lance in one hand, or slide himself under the neck of a running horse. Now he lived with a stiff right shoulder, and the bones of his hip so knit that he could not grip a horse with his knees again. He could still ride, but not in the rank of the armored fighters that were the best of Poland. And at times black anger made him drunk as with wine. It did not seem to matter to this madcap girl, who laughed at him, and said that now she must be wise for both of them, so that both should live. She wanted to bear the children that would one day climb over his knees.

"Now I think you will remember," she said, as he stared at her. "And that will be well." Then tears gleamed in the gray eyes. "Oh, Szary, I have seen you die once, foolish and headstrong. Now are you something else because you are part of me, so be wary as a wolf-be careful, and live. Here!"

She threw her arms around his neck and her lips touched his mouth. Then because he had to move so slowly-she seized the bundle by him, and shook out his bright blue-and-white cloak, clasping it over his shoulders, which had already begun to grow thin. She lowered his battle sword of gray steel into the sheath at his belt. Then she ran to her shaggy pony, and waved to him, before trotting away through the trees.

"Keep out of sight," he called to her: "Stay with the regiment until tomorrow's night hath passed."

She did not call back to him. He waited until he could see the huntsmen in their green tunics coming up the ravine as if after boar before he hurried toward his mare tied by the fire. He moved slowly, because he limped. He reached the gray mare, set his foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself into the saddle. He slapped the mare with the end of the reins and turned her up the bank, among the wet ferns. He heard a shout close behind him, and he looked back to see that the huntsmen had spears, and not crossbows. For he did not want to be hit by a crossbow bolt. They were spreading out through the ferns behind him. By now, Yadvi would be clear away.

Szary forced the mare up the slope, but unseen by the huntsmen he pulled hard on the rein. The mare labored and slipped back.

So Szary was caught by the half ring of riders. A dozen of them closed around him, while he turned the mare on her haunches to face them. When he drew his sword and slashed awkwardly to one side, the boar spears of the huntsmen thrust at him. He saved his body from the points, but he could not get through the ring of riders.

The mare staggered from the shock of a heavier charger, and Szary thought his fight was about over. He saw a man over him, massive as a bear-a spear's point held in check.

"Yield you," this rider grunted.

"Tell me your name," cried Szary.

"Arnold of Prauen, Korntur of Vorberg."

Szary let fall his sword and sat back in the saddle, rubbing his side where a steel edge had hacked along his ribs. The fight, he thought, had been just long enough.

Von Prauen motioned for one of his men to pick up the sword, and his blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he surveyed it. A gold cross shone on the hilt, and he could make out letters in the worn steel. Pro patria ad mortem.

"We have caught," he said to his men, "what is better than a boar. Bind up his side; take the mare's rein."

"To go where?" Szary asked quickly.

"To Vorberg's gate, where no Pole has been before you." Von Prauen smiled. "Does that please you, my Pole?"

Szary hid his gladness. He would get inside Vorberg's gate. "Faith," he lied, "I have heard that the Lord Devil who was accustomed to dwell within Vorberg's halls now seats himself in the nether regions because he finds it pleasanter. I shall see for myself if this be true."

At the hour of pones the chimes sounded in Vorberg's chapel.

To the workers in the fields the castle looked like a dark mountain rising from the plain. A man-made mountain of stone, overlooking the river and the highway to the Baltic. The easternmost castle of the Deutsche Ritter, the Teutonic Knights, who had come up from the south of the German empire to build a chain of such castles into the eastern lands among the pagans of the Baltic. The Knights had built a citadel of their Order at Prague, among the mountain highways, and at the port of free Danzig where the traffic of the Vistula met the sea.

These castles, stretching eastward, had the center of their chain at Marienberg, where dwelt the Meister of the Order. For long, they had been advancing step by step through the forests of the pagan Prussians. With their swords the Knights had overthrown these stubborn pagans, and had baptized the survivors. And now, toward the end of the fifteenth century of grace, they had taken another step toward the East, and Vorberg had risen within the Pole, on the plain itself.

At noon this day as always, von Prauen made his rounds. But this time he took Szary, his prisoner, with him. It suited him that Szary should see the strength of Vorberg.

"What have you equal to this? " he asked curiously, when they climbed to the summit of the keep, where two men-at-arms paced, watching the distant signal towers on the highroad.

Squinting down an arrow slot, Szary shrugged his good shoulder. "Nothing so high," he said, "nothing so big. We have, however, some good horses and women."

Horses, thought the kolntur, were desirable to carry the weight of armored men to battle, women to breed sons to bear arms. The sounds from the courtyard below made an orderly hum, each particle of which carried its message to him-like the instrument of an orchestra. A clank sang of a smith's hammer on anvil; a heavy rustling, of hay being thrown out in the stables for the horses of the afternoon patrol. A curious thudding meant that the armigers were rounding out the stone cannonballs. The dry voice of the drillmaster echoed faintly: "Cut ... cut!"

"Yes, my sir," von Prauen admitted, "you warfarers of the plain have good horses; and you can ride like centaurs. But you cannot ride your chargers through these walls, nor leap over them."

"As to that," Szary objected, "I am not so sure. I am thinking, brother Knight, I can ride with my war band into your gate before the morrow's nightfall."

"Why not to the moon also?" von Prauen asked.

"Some other day for that." Szary looked amused and kept a rein on his temper. "But I say truly, my lord brother. Yea, now I can see a way into this stronghold of yours, and I must say that you are kind and well disposed to bring me hither to this eyrie that I might see it plain."

Von Prauen smiled. And anger stirred in him slowly, for he thought the Pole was mocking the strength of Vorberg. With his eye he measured for the thousandth time the distance between the double walls below him-the nicely calculated flight of a crossbow bolt down, so that the defenders could always command the outer works. He checked over the flame-pourers on the battlements, the stone curtains over the two gates. The walls themselves had been built too massive to be shattered by siege engines, even if the Poles had engines. And their height had been calculated to exceed the length of ladders that could be raised by human strength.

As to mining-the barrier of the river and the moat prevented that. No, the keen intelligence of the experts in the Order, versed in the arts of fortification and siege, had built Vorberg's walls to be impregnable; von Prauen knew that so long as a garrison of any skill held Vorberg's walls, the castle could not be taken.

"That was a senseless boast," he said coldly.

"Nay," Szary laughed, "I have the gift of foresight. I am seeing what is to be, on tomorrow's night."

The smoldering anger flamed up in the German.

"Remember," said Szary, watching him, "I speak as a prisoner, not as a guest. I ask you to surrender Vorberg, to save men's lives."

"To you?"

"While there is time."

Then, even while the hot blood surged into his brain, the komtur saw something below him out of the usual. He heard the chime of a woman's laugh. A girl with unbraided hair had edged herself through the men-atarms loitering in the water gate. With a basket on her arm, she was chaffing a leather-clad armorer.

"Remain here," the German told Szary. As he turned to descend the stair, he noticed that his prisoner was watching the gate intently.