An Embarrassment of Riches (24 page)

“Why? What can I say that will persuade you?”

“Nothing right now.” He took a step back from her, nettled by how her arousal was working on him; he found her youth too disquieting. “Think about what you are risking.”

“I have already.”

“Think again,” he said without any show of temper. “It would pain me to have you expose yourself to shame and disrepute.”

“See?” she persisted. “That’s why I want you. You think of me before you think of yourself. How many men in the Konig’s Court would do that?” Tossing her head, she slipped back through the crowd to the Konige’s Court stand.

Gradually the procession grew nearer, and the welter of sound increased until it was enough to drown out the tolling of the bells of Sante-Radmille that announced the Episcopus’ wagon had reached the square. The crowd stamped its feet in growing anticipation. The gathering at the castle gate stopped roving about and settled down away from the gate, leaving room for the wagons and walkers to enter the castle courtyard as soon as the gate was opened. A loud sounding of buisines from the castle walls signaled the opening of the gate; the people started to cry out in exhilaration.

Rakoczy moved back into the shadow of Mansion Czernin’s high walls, keeping his attention on the Konige’s Court stand, where pages were wriggling through the packed benches, tankards of mead in their hands. He saw Imbolya work her way along the benches into the covered part of the stand where the Konige’s Court was seated; she accepted some mead as she sat down. He studied her for a while, reviewing all she had said to him and trying to determine how much he believed her. He could not deny his responsive desire for her, and his cognizance that he yearned for something more than the passionate dreams he provided the widowed innkeeper at the Black Horse, or the Polish dressmaker who lived at her shop at the Virgin’s Well Square near the eastern gates of the city.

The buisines sounded again, and the Konige rose in her seat and, taking her daughter by the hand, clambered out of the Konige’s Court stand to make her way to the gate of Vaclav Castle; young Kinga began to bounce in a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Her mother bent down to speak to her, and the child stood still. Another outcry of buisines heralded the opening of the gate, and caught the attention of all those waiting in the square. The clanking of chains accompanied the buisines, and the gate began to swing inward, revealing the forecourt, where servants and slaves were gathered to assist the members of the procession as they and their wagons arrived at the castle. Konige Kunigunde tugged at her daughter’s sleeve, guiding her to the edge of the opening and taking hold of her child’s hand to keep her from running off; belatedly Pan Podebrad Athalbrech joined them there, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his stance imposingly self-important as he held his horse’s reins with the other. The buisines blared once more and now more church-bells joined in.

“Comes Santu-Germaniu?”

The voice came from close behind him; Rakoczy pulled the francisca from where it lay under his belt along his back as he turned, the small throwing axe in his hand as he met the eyes of the speaker. He found himself facing a page in a Royal tabard, who paled at the sight of the weapon Rakoczy held. “Your pardon.”

The page shivered from something other than cold; he spoke flatly, no emotion of any kind in his recitation, and he stared at a point somewhere over Rakoczy’s left shoulder. “The Konige has asked you to attend her Court within the walls when the procession is over. She and the Konig will hold Court in the Great Hall. She asks that you bring your lyre; there are songs she wants you to sing for her and her Court. I have been charged to bring the lyre to you, if you will tell me what I am to say at Mansion Belcrady to receive it.”

“If you will first tell the dear Royal I am honored to be included in her Court on this day.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. “At Mansion Belcrady ask for my manservant Hruther, who will bring the lyre to me in your company. Tell him the reason for this summons, and he will reward you with a silver Moravia.”

The page ducked his head. “Do you want me to bring him to you?”

“If you would. After you inform the Konige of my answer, use the back-street and you will reach Mansion Belcrady without difficulty. If you try to go down this street, it will take you half a day to get there.” Rakoczy slid the francisca back into his belt at the small of his back. He recalled his battle with Saito Masashige at Chui-Cho fortress when the francisca had proved invaluable.

The page signaled his compliance and disappeared amid the flood of people who poured into the square ahead of the procession. A dozen foot-soldiers emerged from the castle and attempted to push back the throng, but without much success. A short while later, Rakoczy saw the page kneel to Konige Kunigunde, then rise and depart again. The soldiers and the crowd continued to jostle as the wind snapped at the banners unfurled along the battlements.

Rakoczy drew back farther into the shadows, making sure his back was against the wall of Mansion Czernin. He was still filled with the sense that he was under observation, and that left him edgy. He could not bring himself to go to the Konige’s Court stand although he knew he would be permitted to sit there; the stand was too exposed and so crowded that movement between its benches would hamper any attempt at a quick departure.

There was a sudden burst in excitement around the square; people strained against the foot-soldiers holding them back, and then the Episcopus’ burnished sorrels appeared, with the grandly decorated wagon behind it. The Episcopus was standing, his crozier in his hand, surrounded by his shivering angels. The wagon stopped in front of the Konige’s Court stand, and the Episcopus made the sign of blessing over the Court, then turned and blessed Konige Kunigunde where she stood in the open gateway before going into the forecourt of Vaclav Castle. The Counselors of Praha, some of them red-faced with exertion, were the next to arrive, and they all bowed to the Konige’s Court and then the Konige herself, then followed the Episcopus’ wagon. The consort of musicians played a short dance-tune for the Konige’s Court, the rendition more forced than spritely, and afterward went through the gate and into the forecourt, their steps faltering. The spectators sent up another cheer of approval for the Weavers’ Guild and their wagon with its large black lion.

Two more wagons arrived and were permitted to enter Vaclav Castle, but the dancers and musicians were left to fill the courtyard with their tunes and antics. It was not long before there was an eruption of cacophony as two different groups of musicians began to compete for the crowd’s attention. Most of the spectators enjoyed the improvised contest, but some did not; Konige Kunigunde made a point of putting her hands to her ears, her face pale. Next to her, Kinga was bouncing again, grinning at the din. Rakoczy did his best not to flinch at the more strained notes, and hoped that when he played for the Konige he would not have such contention to deal with. As he waited for the next wagon to appear, Rakoczy again found himself thinking about Imbolya of Heves and wondering if she truly wanted his intimacy. He was so preoccupied that he almost reached for his francisca when Hruther laid his hand on his shoulder, saying, “My master, I have your lyre.”

Rakoczy took the instrument, holding it carefully to keep it from being damaged by the milling people.

“Perhaps the Konige will allow you to enter the forecourt before the end of the procession?” Hruther suggested. “It’s safer.”

“So it is,” Rakoczy agreed, and started toward the open gate where the Konige stood, greeting all those who were passing through to the next round of entertainment; Hruther followed him, watching the crowd and trying not to hear the worst of the musicians.

Konige Kunigunde accepted the bow Rakoczy and Hruther offered and motioned them on, saying, “I look forward to hearing you, Comes.”

“It will be my honor to perform for you, dear Royal,” he assured her, and hoped it was true.

*   *   *

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Flanders to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus in Praha, written in Imperial Latin on vellum and carried by personal messenger, delivered thirty-eight days after it was written.

To my oldest, most revered friend, the greetings and good wishes of Atta Olivia Clemens on this, the fourth day of November in the Christian year of 1269.

My treasured Sanct’ Germain,

Recent trouble here has become truly hazardous, so I have decided that it would be wise for me to leave Flanders for the time being, not for the reasons you might think. This has little to do with my right to own the land or problems of erosion, although both are present, nor it is because I have come under scrutiny that might expose me. I have decided to spend the winter in Sant-Pons and then, when the roads are dry, to go on to Lecco and stay there for a while. My situation has become difficult and I see no advantage in remaining here while all I do is left under a cloud of suspicion from a gaggle of nuns who have nothing else to do but accuse decent widows—I count myself among them—of dealing with the Devil. Already three have been condemned to prison cells for no greater crime than living without the so-called protection of a male relative; as a foreigner and a person of means, I have to prepare to defend myself against the insinuations that I am a tool of Satan, or depart.

How did it happen, that the Church insinuated itself into every aspect of life as it has? A century ago there was a clear line between the laity and the clergy, and each had its recognized province. But since they stopped priests from taking wives—and leaving Church lands to their sons—the Church has been tightening its grip on everything. They find heresy and devils everywhere, and declare no one is safe. The nuns here at Sant-Laizare are hardly unusual, for there are many convents and monasteries that have seen outbreaks of visionary nonsense that belongs more to fables than to faith, but, of course, we are speaking here of cloistered women who only pray, spin, pray, weave, pray, sing, pray, eat only enough to keep from starving, pray, and pray. On such a regimen, I would have visions, too. Of course, the visions are carnalistic, and that implies, according to the local Episcopus, that there must be an external cause, for no devout ladies ever had so much as a hint of lust or desire for anything but the choirs of Heaven. Thus accusations have fallen on three widows in the area as I have said, and I may well be next.

I was hoping to remain here another five years, but that would be unwise. Niklos has told me that he is convinced this place is unsafe. They’ve burned heretics in Hainault—six widows, a midwife, four prostitutes, one catamite, and an old woman with a hump—and it may be that they will also burn witches in Brabant and Flanders. If that should occur, it would be better if I were gone from this place. Fire, as you taught me so long ago, kills vampires as well as the living. And if I am burned, my estate will go to the Church, since I would have fallen to the snares of Satan, a consideration that is only an afterthought to the zealous Episcopus. Lecco should be safe enough for a year or two, and by then I will be able to find a place where I would not become the focus of religious disapproval.

It is the Crusades that have done this—this ferocity in the name of Jesus the Savior. They’re saying that there will be yet another one. What number is that—seven? eight? Haven’t any of the rulers learned that they will not conquer the Holy Land no matter how laudable they claim their cause is? The followers of Mohammed will not give up their faith any more than the Christians will give up theirs. No slaughter will lessen the devotion of either side, but it will create a taste for vengeance and rapine, as we see. That it should spread to those called heretics shouldn’t surprise anyone now that the nobles have acquired the rewards of their dogmatism.

I am in the process of helping my so-called half-brother Niklos in deeding my estate over to my “niece” and her “husband,” both of whom have written to accept this bequest. I have found a steward to manage the place in my absence and have obtained pledges from the Dux that the deed and its terms will be upheld, which is the most I can hope for, given that there still is no Pope to endorse my claims.

If I lose this estate, then I will lose it, but it is better to go while I still can leave of my own accord. Niklos has already secured a villa for me near Sant-Pons and I will leave in six days. Half of my chests and crates are packed and will soon be loaded onto the best wagons I possess. I am choosing the horses I shall take with me, most of them coldbloods. They’re already fuzzy as dandelions, which will help to keep out the cold. I have decided to ride in the saddle most of the way, and will select my riding horses for the journey in a day or two, so they may be given extra feed in preparation for the journey ahead.

In spring I will set out for Lecco and will send you word of my departure, assuming I know where you are. If you are no longer in Praha or Bohemia, I will send messages to Eclipse Trading in Roma and in Venezia, and you may have them sent on to wherever you are. I must tell you that I hope you will stay closer to home for a time. Those years you were in China were most distressing to me, aware you were alive but with no idea where. Spare me that for a decade or two, will you? I know you do not travel on whim, but I ask you to choose a place next time that I might expect a letter to reach you in less than a year.