Speak to the Devil (33 page)

Had Anton thought this up all by himself? A party to cheer everyone up after all the bad news was probably a good idea, admittedly, yet it
seemed a little out of character for Anton to be so perceptive. What was in it for him, personally?

The horses clattered into the palace yard. Fortunately, not all of the stable hands had been given the day off, and one of them knew Wulf.

“Have the bags sent to the Orchard Room,” he ordered, and took off at a near run. Three other Magnuses followed, Vlad demanding to know what all the hurry was.

Again Wulf’s luck held, for the porter on the door remembered him. He said he thought they would find the count in the hall, supervising the arrangements for the banquet.

Otto’s heavy hand descended on Wulf’s shoulder. “Take your time,” he whispered. “What are you afraid of?”

Wulf pulled free of the hand, but forced himself to walk calmly to the ramp. “Nothing.” But he had thought of a reason why Anton might want to hold a party.

Otto stayed close. “Perhaps you should be. Don’t do anything rash.”

“Me? Rash? What do you think I am, a Magnus?”

“You’re very much a Magnus, and I don’t want any of my brothers turned into a toad.”

What if that brother was a toad already?

The hall was a turmoil of harassed servants. Tables and benches stood around three sides of the long room, and Anton towered in the middle, resplendent in scarlet robe and golden coronet. Around him fussed a group including old Seneschal Jurbarkas, Arturas the herald, Secretary Radim, and four or five unknowns. No doubt they were arguing problems of precedence. Whether one was seated above or below one’s favorite enemy would be a matter of scandal and gossip in the town for months. Anton looked up and caught sight of the newcomers.

“
Vlad!
” he roared, startling his companions. “Vladislav Magnus!” He pushed out of the group and came striding forward to greet Vlad with an embrace and much back-slapping. “I have never been so glad to see you, Brother!”

“Were you ever glad to see me at all?”

“Of course not, but I certainly am now!” Laughing, they hugged again.

“And
Marek
! Brother-Brother Marek!” Again brother embraced
brother, although Marek’s head did not reach Anton’s shoulder. “I did not expect you to rally to the cause, too. Wonderful to see you after all these years. And … oh, no!”

He stared at Otto in inexplicable dismay. “I did not expect
you
.”

“All the greater your pleasure, I hope?” Otto opened his arms for a hug.

“Well, yes … of course!” Anton made a fast recovery and they embraced. “You didn’t bring Branka, did you?”

“No,” Otto said, frowning at Anton’s peculiar reaction to him.

“And Wulf.” This time, Anton offered a mere smile—a very thin smile. “You waste no time on your missions, squire. But then, neither do I. Madlenka and I are handfasted, so confine your attentions to the kitchen sluts from now on.”

He was wide open. A fist like a mallet rammed into his solar plexus, doubling him over; then its partner struck his jaw hard enough to straighten him out again. He landed full length, and his coronet rolled off across the floor. A very satisfying start!

The spectators all screamed.

Wulf planted a boot on Anton’s outstretched hand. “You will apologize from down there,” he said loudly. “Do it now, because if you get up first I will knock you down again. And again. And—
arrgh
!”

Vlad’s great arms wrapped around him and lifted him clear off the prostrate count. “You’re even faster than you used to be, lad. Nice one-two, but not the best of manners.”

Anton surged to his feet and found himself nose-to-nose with Otto.

“You offended first,” Otto said quietly. “So you apologize first.”

Anton snarled wordlessly and tried to dodge around him.

Otto grabbed a handful of fur-trimmed robe. “You first!” he insisted.

“Or what?”

“Or we all go home and leave you.”

The coin spun … There was honor involved. There was a new count’s dignity before his servants and vassals. Anton was lord of justice and could certainly order his brother jailed or flogged. But that raised the problem of how Wulf’s saints or demons might react, and there was the need for their help against a Wend army practically on the doorstep.

The coin came down showing peace.

Anton whispered, “Sorry. Wulfgang. I ought. Not. To have. Said. That.”

Wulf, with his arms clamped to his sides by Vlad’s great hands, said, “Your apology should not be addressed to me.”

“I certainly did not mean my joke to refer to anyone else.”

Wulf considered that, then nodded. “My mistake, then … Sorry.”

Vlad released him. Otto told them to shake hands, which they did.

“My little brother a count!” Vlad boomed, bringing the audience into the conversation. “A lord of the marches must certainly be a knight, and the traditional start of a dubbing is the
collée
. That’s a light blow delivered by a priest, and since we don’t have a priest handy, we asked Squire Wulfgang to do the honors. He was perhaps a little too enthusiastic, but the lad is excited and got carried away by the solemnity of the occasion.” He turned to Otto. “Draw your sword, Brother, and do the honors.”

Otto smiled to acknowledge this nimble effort to divert the audience’s bewilderment and drew his sword. Anton knelt. Otto touched the blade to his shoulder and dubbed him a member of the international brotherhood of knights. Vlad removed his own spurs and attached them to Anton’s heels. Then Otto belted the sword on him and the deed was done. The audience cheered.

“Well, you’re obviously busy here, my lord count,” Otto said. “Why don’t we go off and change? I assume we are invited to the banquet?”

“You are more than welcome,” Anton said. With a sidelong glance at Wulf he added, “All of you.”

Wulf said, “Thank you,” very clearly, but as the visitors headed for the door, he muttered, “Knighthood? Toadhood would be too good for him.”

“Do try to smile!” snapped Dowager Countess Edita. “You look as if you’re dressing for a funeral, not a banquet.”

“I wonder why?” Madlenka murmured. With her father and brother not ten days in the family vault, a funeral face would be much more appropriate.

Yet here she was, robed in virginal white, being primped and tugged and adjusted by her mother and Ivana, Mother’s crony and personal seamstress. Ivana was all bone and angles, with ears sharper than razors and a tongue to match. Today she was a-tut-tut at this unexpected festivity, shocked by its timing, so soon after the late count’s death. It was officially a recognition of the new count’s accession and a chance for the town dignitaries to meet him, but no one within the castle doubted that it was a wedding feast.

“Mm,” Edita remarked, surveying their masterpiece. “You really are quite beautiful, my dear. In a sylphlike way.”

“Scrawny, you mean.” The hat wasn’t helping. They had insisted she wear a hennin, a steeple hat about two feet high, trailing white lace—the latest fashion from France, they said. She would tower over even Anton. It was totally wrong for her, making her feel like a lance.

“Well, most men do prefer their partners plump, but
fortunately the count seems content with the match. Now it is up to you to accept it as equitably as he does and make the best of it. It is the king’s decision and we all owe our duty to His Majesty. By Our Lady, you’re shivering! It isn’t cold in here. You’re not catching a fever, are you?”

Madlenka considered blaming her chill on lack of sleep, caused by two nights of instruction from Anton in how to please him. But there were no laurels to be won in battles with her mother anymore. At the moment she was nothing—no longer a marriageable heiress, not yet a countess. The Church might regard her as Anton’s wife, but in the eyes of the world she was just the count’s bawd. Once she was properly married, she would be able to displace her mother as head of the household and become a somebody, but until then, she was powerless. And by spring she would be hugely gravid.

The door opened and in scuttled Neomi, another of Mother’s gossips. She was fat where Ivana was thin, all butter and smarm.

“Have you heard what happened?” she exclaimed, rubbing fat hands gleefully.

The dowager countess said no she hadn’t, frowning at Neomi’s yellow-fanged leer. Whatever the news was, it must be bad.

“The count’s brother is back! Squire Whatshisname. And several other brothers, with him!”

Madlenka guessed from the sideways glances that the trouble concerned her, and schooled herself to the stoicism of a tombstone effigy. She did not even shrug. What was he to her?

“The count said something to the squire,” Neomi gushed. “Nobody seems to know what … but the squire knocked him flat on his back! Right in the middle of the hall, in front of everybody. Then the other brothers pulled them apart and made them shake hands.”

Mother was looking colder than Mount Naproti in midwinter. “How loutish!” Those two words would be the text for a future three-hour sermon on the theme of
See What I Saved You From?

“He was probably upset that he didn’t get invited to the wedding,” Madlenka said sweetly, quite certain she was not blushing the tiniest bit. Wulf was back already! Her heart sang.

Stupid, stupid heart.

*   *   *

Standing at the end of the hall with Anton, Madlenka remembered to add a beaming smile to her appearance. She could gripe at Mother in private, but for outsiders
noblesse
must
oblige.
The guests waiting to be welcomed and pay their respects were mostly residents of the town—priests, doctors, a couple of notaries, the wealthier merchants, plus some knights from the backwoods. The day after his accession, Anton had called in his able-bodied vassals to do homage to him and to defend Castle Gallant against the Pomeranian attack. Very few of them had arrived yet, and there had been no time for anyone else to make the journey in the rain, or even be notified. Men greatly outnumbered women.

Give him his due, Anton looked striking in Father’s scarlet, ermine-trimmed robe. Even the absurd upturned mustache seemed less presumptuous when worn under an earl’s coronet, and the golden baldric placed him in the highest ranks of Jorgarian nobility. Life was not turning out as Madlenka had imagined it would, but the unexpected usurper was a more attractive husband than she could have realistically hoped for. So she told herself. She ought to be wonderfully happy by now, and might well have believed she was, had she never met Wulf.

She must not stare too often or too admiringly at the beautiful swelling developing on the count’s jaw. Why on earth had Wulf knocked him down in public? Anton would never tell her, but he would certainly have to banish his brother, so she would never see him again. The scandal would echo around the town for months.

The arrival of more brothers had forced Arturas to tear up two days’ work to rearrange the protocol and seating arrangements. Bishop Ugne still took precedence, of course, pompous popinjay in his glorious robes. After the count and future countess had kissed his ring, he took his place beside them to bless the guests as they came by.

After him came Baron Magnus of Dobkov, future brother-in-law Ottokar, who was a very large man in his thirties with a friendly smile on a tough-looking face. His words were conventional, but she suspected that his eyes saw more than most people’s.

Then Sir Vladislav, the largest man she had ever seen, as tall as Anton and twice as wide. His bristling black beard prickled as he kissed her.

“Understand you’re handfasted with Beanpole,” he boomed. “That’s
what we always called him. You’ll find him quite a handful in bed. He’s a terrible rascal with the girls.”

Face flaming crimson, Anton said, “Don’t believe a word of what he says, my dear. Not now, nor ever.”

“Ah, that reminds me—is your ankle all better now, lad?”

“Move along, Vlad,” Anton said resignedly. “The bishop is waiting to hear your confession. This is another brother, Brother Marek of the … um … Well, he was all our mother could manage after producing Vlad.”

Marek was tiny compared with the others, but he had Wulf’s happy smile and the same twinkle in his eyes. Another clever one, she decided. So those were the four brothers senior, and the youngest did not appear. Of course Wulf should not be presented, for he had already met her and was one of the count’s servants, not a guest. Or possibly he had already been kicked out of the castle gate forever.

The banquet began late, but banquets always began late, and the food was always cold. As was customary, the tables had been arranged in a U with everyone backed against a wall, facing inward. Of course the host presided at the end of the room with his noble guests. Lesser folk sat along the sides of the awkwardly narrow hall, men with their backs to the windows, women facing them. In this case there were enough men to take over half the women’s table also, so the women had to be relegated to the far end, beyond the door, as if they were attending another banquet altogether.

Arturas had completed a frenzy of rearranging. Now the lineup along the head table was Sir Vladislav, Dowager Countess Edita, Bishop Ugne, Count Magnus, Madlenka, Baron Magnus, and then the fireplace. The dais being too short to take more people, Arturas had been forced to improvise even more. Anxious not to insult brothers of the count, he had put Marek at the high end of the men’s table, ahead of the six priests of the town, who were shocked at being thus upstaged by a friar. Wulfgang was directly opposite, next to the corner fireplace, similarly offending the constable and the knights.

Madlenka had endured ghastly banquets before, but never one where she was pinned between a new husband—to whom she must be devotedly
attentive—and a brother-in-law she had never even heard of until now, who asked the most extraordinary questions.

Like, “Why did the
landsknechte
leave, my lady?”

What sort of dinner conversation was that? She rummaged through several possible names—Anton, the count—before settling on the unfamiliar, the unbelievable, “My
husband
… says that they wanted more money than he could afford to pay.”