When the Saints (25 page)

“In the fall, now, you know it will have built up a good layer of blubber and thick winter fur, and that’s when the dogs have a problem. That’s when you look at the dogs—how many of them there are, and what scars do they have to show their experience? Too many wounds make a dog shy, a shitty fighter. Just a few will give it experience and teach it some tricks. So you have to sum up the pack and bet accordingly. Unless there are at least six dogs and they look lean and fit and have never been too badly mauled, then I bet on the bear in fall.”

A man asked, “And what about summer, sire?”

Sire?
Wulf looked in shock at his companion. They had just come from the king on his deathbed. There was only one person in the kingdom who might usurp the title of “sire.” If that was Crown Prince Konrad speaking, he must be a countertenor.

“Summer?” the prince shrilled. “Oh, only fools like you would bet on a bearbaiting in summer, Gus.”

Men laughed.

“In summer you have to look at both the bear and the dogs. And remember that sometimes when a bear wins in the spring, it will heal enough to be fought again by summer, but of course it has a very slim chance of winning a second time … although I did see a bear that won twice. Must have been almost ten years ago.…”

The crown prince babbled on, more nonsense. A womanish voice would be a serious handicap for any leader. Vlad shouting orders sounded like a mountain torrent rolling boulders. No matter what his state of mind, young Konrad would always sound panic-stricken. Wulf stole another look at Darina, who raised a painted eyebrow as if to say,
Now you know why we call him Cabbage Head.

But even he exhausted the fascinating topic of bearbaiting eventually. “Well,” he said, “let’s go and insp;s gn=ect King Konrad the Late, shall we? Then we can go back and get on with some serious drinking and buggery.”

Around the corner he strode, leading an entourage of about a dozen men—six or seven young, brightly dressed male courtiers plus a squad of men-at-arms bearing silvered pikes.

The younger Konrad was a surprise: firstly because he looked no older than Wulf himself, secondly because he was short and one expected royalty to be tall. His tunic, cape, and hat were superbly tailored, but cut from drab grays and browns, as if in deliberate contrast to the peacock grandeur of his escort. To a man, his multicolored companions were all taller and slimmer, but even the men-at-arms were mere fresh-faced youths. He was a moth among butterflies.

The prince’s face was pathetically ugly, lopsided and fleshy, as if it had been ill-favored to start with, and later hideously scarred by smallpox. Short, but immensely wide and thick, he had a neck and shoulders that would flatter an ox, and his fancy tailoring could not conceal the barrel-like bulge of his chest, yet his hips and waist were trim. Darina’s praise of his wrestling skills was believable.

She sank into a curtsey. Wulf bowed low, sweeping the tiles with his bonnet, and then stood with his eyes lowered because staring at royalty was forbidden. But the prince’s shoes had platform soles to make him seem taller, and staring at those was probably even more discourteous. He raised his gaze to the prince’s huge chest, decorated with gem-studded orders and a sash of St. Vaclav like Anton’s.

“Checking on the morgue, my dear?” The prince tittered. “Is it true his toes are turning black and … Oh, what have we here? Head up, lad. Let’s have a look at you.”

If he did not melt as his mistress had predicted, Prince Konrad certainly gave Wulf his full attention. Thus might a man study a stud horse.

“Darina’s taken up pimping for us,” said one of the fops, raising a laugh.

“Rough stuff from the stables,” said another, getting another one.

The worst part of having a fair complexion was blushing, and Wulf felt his face turn scarlet from his collarbones to his scalp. He heard some sniggers and murmurs of appreciation as the sycophants waited for their leader’s verdict.

“Turn around,” said the prince.

Wulf turned his back and folded his arms. He heard a few angry mutters.

“All the way,” Konrad said. “Yes, very pretty. You must bring him along to the party tonight, my love. We’ll get Augustin to try him out. What d’yu say, Gus?”

“Jozef has more experience than me at breaking in wild stock, sire.”

ize="-1">The prince sniggered. Even the youths-at-arms in the background were leering. But the mood must be about to change, and Wulf was praying hard that he would be able to keep his slippery temper under control.

“What’s your name, boy?”

For the first time Wulf looked his future king straight in the eye. “Wulfgang Magnus, Your Highness.”

Now it was the prince’s turn to redden. “Another of that Dobkov litter?”

The Magnus temper slipped another notch. “I have the honor to be the count of Cardice’s youngest brother, sire.”

“So you think it’s your turn now? You’re so young we’ll have to make you a duke!”

The pack bayed with laughter at the royal wit.

Konrad glared at his mistress. “Where did you find this knave?”

Wulf braced himself for more devilry. He was not disappointed.

“In the stables, sire, as Lord Jozef said. He’s out of work since his brother left, and the Magnuses are such renowned equestrians that I thought that you might wish to appoint this one master of horse, since that office is currently vacant. Or you might have other uses for him.”

“Yes, I might. I’ll have him stuffed and mounted.” Konrad turned his snarl on Wulf. “Your damned-to-hellfire brother caused the deaths of many good men with his insane showing off. I’ll set you up as a memorial to them.” He moved as if to leave, but Darina was not done yet.

“Come, sire, it’s hardly fair to blame young Wulfie for that. He was telling me just moments ago that he witnessed the accident at Chestnut Hill last week and he doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. It was a very straightforward jump for a good horseman, he says.”

The prince’s ugly face seemed to swell. He turned his rage back on Wulf. “Straightforward, you say?”

Wulf was exhausted, and his temper had long since escaped and flown far away. He shrugged. “Dead easy. I could do it with my hands behind my back.”

This time the silence lasted a dozen heartbeats and it was the one called Augustin who broke it. “A wager, sire?”

Several voices echoed the words.

Konrad liked that idea. He nodded and showed an indifferent set of teeth in a crocodile smile. “You would perform that jump on a bet?”

Wulf tried for an even more insulting shrug. “Wrugump on a bhatever pleases Your Highness.”

“Tomorrow we shall be hunting not far from Chestnut Hill. Meet us there an hour before sunset and show us. With your hands behind your back?”

“Balance the stakes, sire. My horse is all I own in the world.” He would have to steal one of Anton’s. “I shall be gambling its life as well as my own. For what?”

“Five gold florins?”

A few onlookers whistled at such reckless betting.

“I may be only an esquire,
sire
, but my name is as old as yours. Magnuses risk their lives for honor, not gold. Make me the master of horse, and yes, you can tie my hands behind my back.”

The master of horse was the third-ranking officer of the kingdom. The title was hereditary, so he was asking for the impossible.

“There’s a whipping post downstairs, sire,” said one of the flunkeys. “May I lay on the first fifty lashes?”

“But I get to brand him,” said another.

Wulf was well aware that even an esquire might be flogged for such insolence to royalty, and by this time a commoner would be well on his way to losing his tongue as well. He could escape through limbo if they tried to use violence on him. That would shatter the first commandment, but by now he didn’t care a spit.

“The Magnuses do have spirit, sire,” Darina said nervously.

“Tomorrow, one hour before sunset,” Konrad squeaked, and strode off at pace that was almost a run. His entourage lurched into motion behind him. Wulf noticed several winks and grins being directed at Darina. None seemed to be intended for him, fortunately. He tried some deep breaths to calm his fury.

“Just what was all that in aid of?” he demanded. She had deliberately provoked that confrontation, and he couldn’t see why.

“Don’t ask me!” she said furiously. “Why did you lip him like that?”

Because the royal turd had called the Magnuses a litter. Wulf didn’t answer.

She said, “If you really do let them tie your hands, then there won’t be any doubt that you’re using talent. You’ll be breaking the first commandment to powder.”

“You don’t imagine I have any intention of turning up? To perform like a juggler for that bunch of daffodils?”

Konrad might be as celibate and virtuous as a saint, but he posed as an effemid aer for nate lecher. No real man would serve such an ambiguous jackanapes or be seen within a league of him.

They turned the corner and almost collided with another procession, this time entirely female. The leader was young and soberly dressed in dove gray. She clasped a missal in both hands and kept her eyes sedately lowered, but she wore a tiara, and must be Princess Laima. She was followed by a couple of ladies-in-waiting of about her own age, and three much older nuns.

Darina stepped aside and curtseyed. Wulf repeated his floor-sweeping bow. The princess spared them one very fast glance and then dropped her gaze to the tiles again, pacing on by, no doubt heading for an evening visit to her dying grandfather.

“Friendly little miss,” Wulf remarked softly after the parade had safely vanished around the corner. Of course, Darina was a fallen woman and he was dressed like a laborer.

“She’s twice the man her brother is.”

He laughed, and suddenly the rage drained out of him and he remembered how tired he was. When they reached her door, he opened it for her. “Thank you for a fascinating evening, my lady. But you will have to solve Crown Prince Konrad’s problems without me. I must consider my reputation.”

He stepped into limbo.

Now what? The pale nothingness of limbo seemed very restful after palace, castle, and battlefield; it might be a good place to indulge in that sleep time he needed so much. No one could disturb him there. Or could they? More than anything else, he needed instruction in the uses of talent. He knew where to go for that.

CHAPTER
25

Two days ago, Otto had waited on Cardinal Zdenek in his office, but in daylight. By night the place seemed airless and more menacing. The luxuries of gilt and mirrors, of rich drapes and crystal chandeliers, all failed to lighten it or soften its vaunting arrogance. The scraggy old man was leaning forward on his throne, glaring furiously, with little red patches of rage glowing on the milky skin above his white beard and long yellow teeth. He held out his ring for them to kiss—earl first, then baron.

And he left them both on their knees. Otto held a title created back in the twelfth century, and Zdenek was the son of a butcher. Anton belonged to the premier chivalric order in the kingdom, but this glorified upstart clerk considered that he had put him there, so he could treat both noblemen like errant schoolboys called before their magister. Worse, he was deliberately humbling them in front of a witness, for when Otto risked a backward glance, he confirmed that the friar was still present, now seated at a desk behind the door.

“What does it take, Count Anton, to win your loyalty?” the old scoundrel raged, snarling down at them, spraying spit. “Five days ago I created you out of nothing. I found you in an old woman’s bed, swiving her for money, and I made you one of the wealthiest landowners in the country. I deeded you one of the finest countd aerago I creies in the land. I promoted you from cannon fodder to the highest order of chivalry and gave you the hand of a great and beautiful heiress, whom you have now deflowered and plan to hand down to your juvenile brother so he can have his turn with her. What thanks is that?”

Anton’s face was redder than the cardinal’s robes. “But I am exceedingly grateful to Your Eminence, and I know of no reason whatever for Your Eminence to accuse me otherwise. It is true that Lady Madlenka has indicated that she loves my—”

“Loves!
Loves?
Romantic childish rubbish! Take a switch to her backside and teach her where her loyalty lies. Three or four good beatings will soon change her heart. Let me hear no idle jabber of love.”

Otto, who had the great good fortune to be married to a woman of both spirit and intelligence, reflected sadly that Zdenek’s views would be those of most men, including Bishop Ugne. Yet for centuries the noblemen of Europe had made a habit of riding away on crusades and leaving their lands and families in the care of their wives, and the wives had done just as good a job of running them as their menfolk would have done. Otto himself had no fears for Dobkov’s management while it was in Branka’s hands. Women might know otherwise, but most men still thought that only they could make wise decisions.

The butcher’s son had not done. “And if not gratitude, why not a little loyalty, eh? Why are you consorting with traitors, tell me that!”

Anton’s flush of fury faded abruptly to pallor. “Traitors? I am a loyal servant of King Konrad and know nothing of traitors, Your Eminence.”