Speak to the Devil (11 page)

“Can they do anything about it?” she asked, thinking of all those
landsknechte
, and wondering which side they would choose. At worst, Castle Gallant might be sacked by its own defenders.

“The townsfolk? No.”

“How about the garrison?” she asked, eyeing the two broad backs ahead of her. The seneschal must trust his own nephews or he wouldn’t have brought them to the cathedral. Dare she plot a counterrevolution to drive out the traitor?

“Well, they’re hard to judge …”

“Tell me the numbers!”

Jurbarkas laughed gently. “Your father always said you would make a good warrior! The numbers that matter most are the
landsknechte
. Captain Ekkehardt’s contract calls for three hundred lances, which means six hundred fighting men plus four or five hundred boys and other supporters. The constable has about five hundred, mostly archers, but that’s only if you include the militia, some of whom may be away on their farms. And there must be a thousand or more able-bodied youths and young men in the town who can handle a pike, or a wood ax, or a scythe in a pinch.”

At the base of the stairwell the nephews stepped aside, their duty done. Madlenka gave them a smile of thanks before she remembered she was wearing her mourning veil. The seneschal was too engrossed to notice them.

Havel Vranov had a couple of hundred men at the gates. How many more were standing ready to come running when he whistled? Her blood chilled at the thought of battle raging in the streets.

“Why did you say that the
landsknechte
were the ones who mattered?”

“Because they’re trained warriors, my lady, and will obey their leader’s orders. Vranov’s hill men may be savage enough, and will certainly be loyal to their lord, but they cannot have the skill of mercenaries. Few of Kavarskas’s men have had any field experience, and many may refuse to follow him if he betrays his king and the late count’s daughter. The townsmen will be mowed like hay in any serious battle, but there are a lot of them. You see? Nobody can be certain who will come out on top if the swords leap out, but the
landsknechte
are the safest bet.”

It was horrible.

They halted at the door to the hall, and now it was Giedre’s turn to detach herself.

Standing with one hand on the handle, the seneschal said, “I will speak for you, with your permission, my lady.”

That was about the worst idea she had heard yet. “No! I can speak for myself. If you feel I am making a mistake, you may call me aside for counsel or even speak up and contradict me.” Better that than have her trying to interrupt him, like a badly trained child.

The old man shook his head. “I understand completely your concern about your future marriage, Madlenka, but that is not what the count came here to discuss. I spoke with him only briefly, but he never mentioned that subject. If it comes up, then of course you may speak. I hope you will pardon my saying so, but the worries he brings us are more urgent, and I think the constable will be doing most of the talking. After you, my lady.”

The keep was the stronghold, an ugly stone oblong around a central open bailey. Most of the rooms were cramped and drafty. The great hall was the largest room in Cardice after the nave of St. Andrej’s, but when Petr came back from Mauvnik, he had laughed and said that he had seen privies there that were larger. It was a long, awkwardly narrow room, full of tables and benches, for it was where the castle staff and garrison ate their meals. A small dais at one end marked where the count held court and presided over major festivals; there was a fireplace in one corner. The door was in the center of one of the long sides; glazed windows opposite looked out into the bailey.

There were more people present than Madlenka had expected, because Count Vranov had brought his token bodyguard in with him. Five swordsmen in half armor sat on a bench at the end farthest from the hearth, their surcoats bearing blazons of a hound’s head. Dogs required handlers, so they were flanked by six
landsknechte
and six archers of the garrison, led by Deputy Constable Dalibor Notivova. It was more worrisome evidence of the divisions in the town.

So much for the chorus. The principals were grouped on two benches before the fire, and they began to rise to greet
her as soon as they realized she had arrived. She was so intent on them that an unexpected voice behind her made her jump.

“Why’re you hiding?” The speaker was down on his hands and knees inspecting a mouse hole.

“Leonas!” she said. “You startled me.” She lifted her veil briefly.

The youth scrambled up and leered at her with the wet-lipped, slack-jawed gape of a simpleton. He was one of Vranov’s sons, built like a lance, all height and no width, with a beardless face reddened by windburn and all-over freckles that were much the same shade as his untidy thatch of hair. The count had brought him along to Castle Gallant on both his previous visits, explaining merely that the lad got picked on if he was left behind, a thoughtfulness that belied Havel’s ruthless reputation.

“I know you,” Leonas said proudly.

“And I know you. You’ve grown since you were here last.”

He chortled. “My da says I’ve got a spear I could take boar hunting!”

Um … yes. Unable to think of a suitable response and distressed at the thought of how the half-wit might start using that implement in a year or so, Madlenka just smiled and headed off toward the group by the fire, followed by the seneschal. She lowered her veil again.

There was Vranov, of course, and Constable Kavarskas—what treachery had he been plotting with the Hound? The odious walleyed priest, Father Vilhelmas, was not present. The third man she did not know, but she strongly suspected he must be another of Havel Vranov’s army of sons. Another suitor, third time lucky? He was a bulky man of around thirty, with a battered and scarred face.

The count limped forward to meet her, doffed his hat, and bowed. Despite his evil reputation, he was very ordinary-seeming, and had always been well-mannered when she was present, although Petr had referred to him as a foulmouthed blackguard. He seemed to have suffered no ill effects from a lifetime of raiding and rapine other than a twisted leg. His only concession to age was a beard, gray streaked with brown, and his most noteworthy feature a massive hooked nose. He wore sword and dagger, but not armor.

“Lady Madlenka, I grieve deeply for your tragic loss. Father and brother, and both of them noble men. I have ordered prayers said for them in all the churches in Pelrelm.”

She nodded her thanks, grateful that her face was hidden, regretting that she did not trust the veil enough to stick out her tongue at him. At least Father Vilhelmas was not here, loudly declaiming prayers for her father, who had disliked the squinty priest as much as she did.

“Thank you, Lord Vranov.”

“And today I hear that your lady mother has been taken by melancholy. It is a heavy burden you bear.”

“Indeed it is,” she said. “Personally I suspect that some Speaker has laid a curse on us.”

“I could not agree more,” he said solemnly.

“You
do
? I mean, you couldn’t?” How dare he startle her like that!

“I believe it. Father Vilhelmas is of the same opinion. Pray, let us all sit down and discuss our mutual problems.”

He offered his arm, curse him, and escorted her to the corner fire, where the benches had been arranged in a V, separated by a narrow gap. He put her on the left one and sat on the other, across the gap from her. The seneschal moved swiftly to sit on her left, and the others arranged themselves and sat down—Kavarskas and Ekkehardt beyond Jurbarkas, with Kavarskas at the end next the wall. The second Pelrelm man, sitting beyond Vranov, was not introduced, but their family resemblance was obvious.

“Constable,” the seneschal said, “would you please advise Lady Madlenka on the present situation?”

The warrior’s nod of agreement displayed impatience at having to report to a slip of a girl who put on airs and
sent for
him. “My lady, Count Vranov has brought news that the Wends are planning an imminent invasion of Jorgary.”

“How imminent?” she asked, but it was an involuntary reaction, like a blink. Her mind was rummaging through memories of what Petr had said in the summer, when he returned from court. He had explained to her, summarizing what he had told Father, that the reason he had hired a troop of
landsknechte
to overwinter in Gallant was because Cardinal Zdenek had warned that Duke Wartislaw of Pomerania was mustering his army and Castle Gallant was his most likely target. So Havel Vranov might be telling the truth this time.

“Within days,” the constable said. “He believes that his sources are trustworthy.”

“It is almost winter!”

“Wars can be fought in winter,” Vranov interjected. “I beg you to trust me in this, my lady. I have been fighting the Wends all my life. I have killed them with arrows and pikes and swords and roasted not a few of them. My spies insist that what is being planned now is no mere cattle raid. The Pomeranian army is moving down the Silver Road towards the border. Crews are strengthening bridges and repairing fords. Their vanguard may be here by Wednesday.”

Madlenka lifted her veil and looked around the worried faces. “Castle Gallant is unvanquishable! It is well-garrisoned now, with Captain Ekkehardt and his men here to help.”

“It has no guns worth the name,” the
landsknecht
said loudly. “Castles all over Europe hitherto deemed impregnable are crumbling like eggshells. England, France, Italy, Spain—all their rulers have been investing in bombards to knock down castle walls. Unruly barons are being brought to heel, for only kings and some dukes can afford artillery trains. Fortresses that have stood for a thousand years are being breached, like Constantinople. Your father should have set guns in the barbicans. I told him. He said maybe. He said next year.”

Kavarskas scowled at the interruption. “Our curtain wall
could
be badly damaged by guns, but it stands on the cliff edge, so no breech would be usable. But the barbicans are vulnerable. One shot can smash a gate to kindling.”

It was Vranov’s turn again. “This explains why the curse was laid upon your honored father and brother! The Wends’ Speakers have cut off Cardice’s head and left it leaderless.”

And Madlenka had assumed that her marriage prospects were all that mattered. What a fool she must have seemed to the seneschal! It was true that Vranov had fought the Wends for years. She had no proof that Father Vilhelmas had cursed her family; some Wend Speaker could have been to blame just as easily. Cardinal Zdenek had warned Petr about the Wends. Despite her dislike and distrust of the count, Havel Vranov would be an indispensable ally in a war with Pomerania.

She glanced at the seneschal on her left, but he was deep in thought, staring at the floor. The door opened and closed, and Bishop Ugne came shuffling in. He had shed his formal vestments in favor of simple robes and a wide tasseled hat; he waved everyone down as they started to rise.

“Do not stop for me. Carry on.” He came to a halt in the gap between Madlenka and Vranov. He was puffing as if he had been running, an unusual breach of dignity for him. “A quick update, please, and then carry on.”

“Count Vranov,” the constable said, “has intelligence that the Wends will attack us within days. Castle Gallant has withstood sieges for months in the past, but Duke Wartislaw has a cannon big enough to destroy our fortifications.”

“Has the king been informed?”

“I sent all my news to Mauvnik three days ago, Lord Bishop,” Vranov said. “But His Majesty cannot even give us an answer in time, let alone reinforcements. If we do nothing, his courier will find nothing left here except ruins and corpses.”

“You exaggerate!”

“Not at all. Duke Wartislaw has obtained a bombard, a monstrous iron tube twice as long as a man. They call it the Dragon. It is not as enormous as some the Turks used to take Constantinople, but it is big enough. It shoots balls bigger than a man’s head farther than our crossbows can send bolts. Once installed, it will demolish your barbican in a few hours.”

“A cleric should not argue military matters, but surely the debris will block the entrance?”

“The barbican will collapse, the Wends will storm the breach over the rubble, and Gallant will be overrun.”

“It is not quite hopeless,” Kavarskas said. “They can only come by the Silver Road. They can move their Dragon by boat to the end of the lake, at Long Valley. The Ruzena rises there, but is not navigable, so from there the gun must be drawn by oxcart. There are half a dozen places where we may be able to block them if we move fast enough.”

“Then why don’t you?” Madlenka demanded. Why waste time just talking?

“I certainly shall, now that I have heard His Lordship’s news,”
Kavarskas replied in a tone normally used only to address tiresome infants. “But the Wends know all this as well as we do. They may have scouts very close to us already, watching the road.”

“You have an outpost at Long Valley, don’t you? To watch the road?”

He rapped the wall beside him with his hook to indicate impatience. “And so far the patrols have ridden out and back undisturbed. But the Long Valley post could be bypassed. If I were the Wend leader, I would already have moved a sizable force around the outpost and brought it close enough to keep a watch on the gorge. If the defenders sent out a force larger than the usual patrol—a force large enough to start demolishing bridges, for instance—then I would ambush it and destroy it. We lack the manpower to afford suicide missions, my lady. They must outnumber us twenty to one.”

He grew louder. “These are not our grandfathers’ days! We can no longer skulk behind the walls as they did, waiting until the enemy starves and goes away. If the Pomeranians invade, we shall need an active defense, with frequent sorties against their gun emplacement. But we will take monstrous losses if we charge along the road into their volleys, and Captain Ekkehardt and I between us have less than a thousand men.”