A Mankind Witch (7 page)

Cair shrugged. "I can't help that." He noticed that one of the hindmost thralls had sneaked off, doubtless to tell someone. "Come on. Let's get the job done, before it gets too warm and flies drive us all mad."

Thus it was that when the stable master came running around the corner, Cair was once again just a thrall, loading muck. "You," the stable master called him out. "What are you doing here?"

Cair looked puzzled. "Shoveling horse manure, master," he said humbly. His clothes and hands bore ample testimony to this. He was willing to bet his bouquet did, too. Most unlike caraway, it would be. "Ask the others. I had done nearly a cartload by myself. It's what I was told to do. Do you want me to do something else?"

The steward plainly found this a bit too much for his small mind. "But you were missing. You've run away."

Cair contrived to look shocked. "Oh no, master. I'm a good slave. I just started work early. My back was sore and I could not sleep, master."

"He does things like that, Svein," said Signy, who had come on the scene, quietly. "I think he's mad. But he's done his horses, and by the looks of it done a lot of the work I told you to get them to do."

The stable master swallowed as if his mouth was suddenly too dry. "But the dogs followed him. He has run away."

"He didn't run very far, by the looks of it," said Signy, coolly. "I wish the rest of them would run to the dung heap as eagerly."

"But . . . but . . . I set the king's men to hunt him . . ."

Signy raised her eyebrows, tilted her head. "Well, whatever they're hunting, it's not him. You'd better saddle up, so that you can go after them and tell them they've been sent on a fool's errand. If you wait until they've wasted half a day on it they'll be furious."

"They're going to be furious anyway," muttered the man. But he left in haste.

Cair settled into the work. Never had shifting horse dung—even with a sore back, seemed so sweet. And he collected quite a bit of saltpeter in the process. It quite made up for being underslept and very hungry.

Later, the news trickled down. One of Vortenbras's guards had had an unfortunate accident that morning. His cinch had broken midjump, and he had tumbled headfirst into the broken logs and briars. The man had been brought back to the hall on a hurdle, with a cracked head and a broken arm. And his horse had kicked one of the others. That rider had also taken a bad fall.

Cair looked sorrowful. "I did warn him," he said. He'd take things very carefully for a while. But the seeds of rumor were planted. And well watered.

Jarl Svein, Hjorda's emissary, was back from Stavanger. Rumor had it that Hjorda's coffers were very full right now. A fleet from Vinland to Flanders had been intercepted, apparently. Doubtless reprisals would follow—but for now Hjorda had gold to burn. Or at least to spend on a bride-price. And, if they'd paid it over to Telemark, the vengeful fleet wouldn't recover it.

Signy made her small, stiff bow to the sleek-looking man. He bowed extravagantly. And well he might. If King Hjorda had his way, she'd be his queen.

For a day, at most—but then he wouldn't know that. If she managed to do it right, that was. There were times when she doubted she'd even get that right.

Signy drew some cold comfort from the knife in her sleeve. It was dedicated to Thor, not Odin. Most of the aristocracy gave some worship there, although Odin was their lord, and the warriors and even the thralls gave more deference to Thor or Frey. The hammer thrower was something of a direct god—but he was an honorable one. Odin's repute was less savory in these matters. Her oath was sworn on Thor's ring, and the hammer inscriptions on the knife.

"Princess," said the jarl reverently. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance. You are everything I was led to believe."

As I have heard you and my stepmother talking about me, that is not a compliment
, thought Signy. But she did not allow her face to betray her. "Indeed," she said, frostily.

"Signy," said Queen Albruna, with a honey-dripping smile. "I have wonderful news for you. Your betrothal! Of course the formal announcement and the presentation of the bride-gifts will take place at the banquet tonight. Such joy for you, my dear! Although I will be sad to lose such a dutiful daughter . . ."

"Think of it as gaining a son," said the jarl, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Hjorda was older than the queen.

"Say how happy you are, Princess," said the queen.

"It is my duty to say so," said Signy, even though she knew that this would bring down Albruna's wrath, later, in private.

The jarl chose to ignore this snub, and to continue with more platitudes. He probably had practice. King Hjorda had sent three wives to the burial mound already. "It will be a joyous occasion, joining two ancient great houses."

Hjorda's line was oh . . . maybe a generation old. His father had been a forsworn murderer, too. An ancient great house, indeed. Signy found herself unable to dig up a reply. Besides the lump in her throat was getting in the way of talking. How could Vortenbras agree to this? Queen Albruna wanted her out—so long as she got as great an advantage as possible from her stepdaughter. But Vortenbras! He knew how much their father had hated Hjorda. How could he? But she was a princess of the house royal. She knew where her duty lay. And she knew the sure course to honor, too. She retreated to the corner of the room. Typically, her stepmother's chambers were cold. She pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders and waited for the next horror. It wasn't long in coming. One of the ladies-in-waiting drew attention to the tambour frame the queen had set down. The queen's embroidery was always exquisite. This piece, executed in gold and silk thread, particularly so. It was an as yet uncompleted needle-picture of the death of Brynhild. The admiration in Jarl Svein's voice was genuine. "It's a work of art, Queen Albruna. What they call nué, or 'shaded gold' work in the Empire. The princess is a notable needlewoman. She's been well taught."

Albruna laughed musically. "I'm afraid not, Svein. That's my current piece. Poor Signy shows no talent for this sort of womanly art." Looking across the room Signy could see her own poor effort on a stool by the fireside, where she was sure that she'd not left it. From here she could see every crooked stitch. It was in coarse flax thread, but that was all she found she could work with.

"Signy, do show us your piece. Or perhaps you could sing for us?"

Signy wished desperately to be elsewhere.

The knife came down in a vicious arc. Thrust deep into the softness.

Signy lay there, sobbing, with the knife clutched so hard in her hand that the haft's wire-binding cut into her hands.

She could kill a bolster. But could she kill a man? Even one as vile as her bridegroom?

After the rapier winnowing, Erik and Manfred walked across to the main dining hall, to take the evening meal together. The monastic knights lived simply. In theory, anyway. Erik had found it true enough in the chapter houses he and Manfred had served in on the eastern frontier. But here, as at Lödöse, the food and drink were more what one expected in a minor nobleman's manor.

Their fencing companion chose to come and sit across from them. "So," he said, "I gather I have been fencing with people of high degree—who expect special treatment, although this is contrary to our oath."

His voice was guardedly neutral, but he had chosen to sit with them although there were other vacant places.

Erik pushed at the platter of highly spiced pork in front of him. "Is this food specially prepared for our benefit, then?"

"I'm enjoying it, if it is," said Manfred cheerfully. "It's a sight better than the food at Norburg in Prussia was. Not a patch on Venetian cuisine though."

The broad-faced knight looked a little taken aback. "No. This is about the usual standard. I was surprised when I joined, too."

"You should try the houses in eastern Prussia," said Manfred with a grimace. "We were there for our novitiate. They eat nothing but boiled cabbage, turnips, and gruel half the winter, I swear."

The local knight looked distinctly surprised. "I did not know that you had served a novitiate just like the rest of us, Prince Manfred."

Erik's shoulders shook slightly. "He did his best not to, believe me. He certainly did his best not to."

"Yes," said Manfred, ignoring him loftily. "I ate boiled cabbage, turnips, and gruel . . . In between praying and drilling. Or drilling and praying. Your abbot here must be an easy-going one."

"He probably doesn't have reprobates like you to plague him," Erik said, dryly.

The Ritter looked somewhat taken aback. "They made a prince drill and eat cabbage?" he said bemusedly. The idea of the cabbage especially seemed beyond him.

Erik could support that, anyway. Cabbage was something that should forever be removed from the diet of anyone who was going to be confined to armor. "As you said earlier, the order sets aside worldly rank, Ritter. The archbishop himself decreed that Manfred should be just another knight, anonymously enrolled." Erik smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, the prince just hasn't stayed anonymous enough. Word leaked out. People have a problem with leaving off the title, as the Emperor doesn't look kindly on
lèse-majesté
, and we're just serving our time as confreres. They think that next year they might have to please explain why they treated the prince like a lummox who eats too much," he said, pushing the pork platter away.

Manfred reached across him and helped himself to some more of the meat, anyway. "I have a big body to keep up. And I've a lot of cabbage and gruel to get over. To say nothing of the drilling."

"Oh. That was not the impression that the proctor-general gave me a little while back." The Ritter gave them a brief embarrassed smile. "I've been hauled into our abbot's office and told to watch over you and stop you infecting our squires with silly newfangled and undisciplined ideas. I am the proctor of instruction."

"Usually a penance position," said Manfred. "Erik here was given the same task—until they realized that he liked it."

The broad-faced man acknowledged the hit with another smile. "Fortunately, the abbot hasn't caught on to that yet. I was worried that that was why he'd called me in. I was told instead to come and converse with you, and to report back. It is not something that I am accustomed to being asked to do."

So, thought Erik. This was a "fishing" mission. The knight proctor was not too sure which side of the conflict he stood on. So, instead of being a good spy he was letting them know what he was doing here.

"Well, Ritter, let us introduce ourselves formally, seeing as you have orders to converse with us," said Manfred, letting his amusement show now. "I am Manfred of Brittany. The morose one complaining about good food is Erik Hakkonsen."

The knight nodded. "My name is Juzef Szpak." There was something very . . . odd about the way he said it. As if expecting trouble, and ready to meet it halfway if need be.

Only the very observant would have noticed any change in Manfred's manner. But then, Erik was very observant. It had kept him alive, and, because of this, he'd tried to train his charge to be observant too. Sometimes he even thought he'd succeeded. "Well, I am pleased to make your formal acquaintance, Ritter," said Manfred easily, giving him a friendly buffet and a grin. Manfred was plainly going out of his way to be engaging, and to treat Szpak as an equal. "You've the makings of a fine rapier artist."

There was a slight lessening in the tension in Szpak's shoulders. No answering smile, yet. "It is good training. But I think I am too big, Prince Manfred. This Ritter here," he gestured at Erik, "makes me look like an ox."

"Well, he tells me I look like a cross between a donkey and a fat slug," said Manfred. "Szpak. It sounds like a Polish name. Is it?"

"I am Polish, yes. My father was a merchant from Danzig," said the Ritter. His voice was even. His eyes said, "make something of it, even if you are a prince."

No wonder he was in the abbot's black books, thought Erik. The Pomeranians and Prussians from whom the knights now drew most of their membership were the most feudal and downright medieval in the Empire. The Junkers would just
love
a Pole, and a self-confessed son of a merchant, to boot. It was different in Venice, Iceland, or Vinland, where "nobleman" and "trader" were often synonymous. Here a true noble took at sword's point and would cheerfully kill for implying he might sully his hands with vulgar chaffering. This Juzef must be a tough lad to have even made it to being a knight-proctor.

"You've fallen in bad company associating with all these Prussians," said Manfred, plainly also understanding this. "Speaking as a Breton who has fallen in with an Icelander, I am an expert on bad company."

"You
are
bad company," said Erik, pushing his trencher aside and standing up. "Come and talk to us in our quarters, Ritter Szpak. Seeing as you have orders to do so."

"Satisfy my curiosity," said Manfred, once they'd reached the privacy of the chamber that he and Erik had been assigned to. "Just what is a Pole doing here in among the Knights of the Holy Trinity."

Juzef Szpak looked at Manfred thoughtfully. "You do not wish to know what a merchant's son is doing polluting the ranks of the noble order?"

"I'm a Breton," said Manfred digging in his saddlebag. "Things are not quite the same as in the Empire among the Celts, for all that I've spent a lot of my life in the court at Mainz. After all, Erik's father sells ponies and goats. And I put up with him," he said with a good-natured grin. Manfred pulled the metal flask that he'd been looking for out the saddlebag, unstoppered it with his big square teeth, and offered it to the startled Ritter. "Armor polish flavored with caraway. It's good for you. The caraway is a great antidote to the cabbages you seem so worried about."

The unsuspecting knight took a mouthful. "Whuff . . ."