Speak to the Devil (6 page)

“Mother, please, as you love me?”

Nothing.

“Mother, I absolutely swear that I will never argue with you again!”

Madlenka felt very guilty. The two of them had been constantly at loggerheads for months now. Not about anything in particular, more about everything in particular. Petr had laughed at their battles and said it was time his sister was married off. Which was true—still not betrothed at seventeen, Madlenka was practically an old maid. Father had agreed, but had done no more about arranging a match for
her than he had about buying guns for the castle, as Petr had wanted. Now both Father and Petr were gone, she and Mother should be supporting each other. This torpor was
so
incredibly unlike Countess Edita! She had always been a strong, active woman. Opinionated, too.

With a sigh, Madlenka closed the bed curtain and turned around to meet Giedre’s sympathetic gaze. Giedre was the daughter of Sir Ramunas Jurbarkas, the castle seneschal. She was officially Madlenka’s lady-in-waiting, but was in fact her best and lifelong friend, less than a day younger. Father had referred to Giedre as Madlenka’s shadow, but if so she was a midday shadow, being plump and short, where Madlenka herself was tall and skinny, with a face all bone. Giedre was dark, Madlenka fair.

“Do not think harshly of her, my lady. Whatever evil witchcraft smote your father and brother has taken her wits also.”

Bishop Ugne said the same—that the fault must lie not with the countess but with the Speaker who had cursed her. His own efforts to remove the curse had failed utterly. Madlenka was convinced that the Satanist had been either Count Havel Vranov, the Hound of the Hills, or someone in his employ. Now he was at the gates with an army, and the constable, Karolis Kavarskas, was going to let him in. Vranov just might recognize that the countess retained some vestige of her late husband’s authority, but he would spurn any attempt by Madlenka to assert her rights. An underage female orphan had precious few rights anyway.

The count’s bedchamber at Cardice was a large room by Cardice standards, and a luxurious one for Jorgary. It had glass in its windows, rugs from Syria, and chests made from the cedars of Lebanon. The wall tapestries were of Flemish weave, depicting mythical scenes, faded now. Here her father had slept and here he had died, ending his line. Women could not inherit titles. No woman could be lord of the marches.

So now Sir Karolis Kavarskas, that most hateful constable, claimed to rule in Count Bukovany’s place, “until His Majesty appoints his successor.”

Or until Havel Vranov decided to appoint himself. Why else was he riding up the Silver Road with hundreds of men at his back?

“How long now before they open the gate?” Madlenka demanded.

Giedre peered through a clear spot in the lozenge-paned window to see how far sunlight had descended Mount Naproti. “Very soon, I think.”

Knuckles rapped on the door. “Madlenka, my child?”

Madlenka knew that sonorous and melodious voice. “Please enter, my lord bishop.”

Both women curtseyed as Bishop Ugne strode … um … waddled into the room. His voice was the best part of him, and his appearance never failed to disappoint. Even when swathed in many layers of ecclesiastical vestments of blue and cloth-of-gold, he was too short and dumpy to impress, and his towering miter made him look top-heavy. His face was ruddy and chinless, so dominated by a massive curved nose that Madlenka was invariably reminded of a parrot she had once seen for sale in the spring fair. It had clung to the side of its cage very much the way the bishop’s soft white hand clutched his tall crozier.

The castle women distrusted the bishop and the numerous female servants he had brought with him. There were whispers that his housekeeper was his mistress, her sister was another, and his two young nieces were actually his daughters. Ugne was of noble blood—son, brother, and uncle of dukes—and had no doubt paid a high price to purchase his office, and that was another grievous sin. Everyone knew that the Church was corrupt; the Jorgarian clergy were probably no better or worse than any others.

Surprisingly, Father had rather approved of Ugne, on the grounds that most of his predecessors had refused to reside in this bleak mountainous diocese and had preferred to delegate their duties to vicars. Petr had approved too, for the very different reason that he ranked Ugne as the third best horseman in the county. He was also an enthusiastic hunter and had, by God’s mercy, been present to administer the last rites on the day Petr was gored.

He glanced meaningfully at the bed curtains.

Madlenka shook her head. “No better.”

“As the Lord wills. Now, daughter, why do you summon me with such frantic claims of urgency on a Sunday morning? It is everyone else’s day of rest, but to those of us who do the Lord’s work, it is a busy one.”

Her note had explained the problem. If he did not consider it important, what was he doing here in the castle in his full vestments?

“Count Vranov, that’s why! He crossed the border with a small army last night. One of Father’s vassals … one of the tenants from up near
the forks of the Hlucny rode in after curfew last night to report that a sizable troop of Pelrelmians had ridden by his fief. He saddled up and trailed them, and watched them pitching camp at High Meadows, then came up to the gate to report. Father would have rewarded him handsomely! You could see their campfires from the wall. This morning the lookouts heard their bugles sounding reveille.”

The bishop frowned. “And what size do you consider a small army?”

“About two hundred fighting men, he said, and that’s not counting servants.”

“Who said? I hope you were not out on the wall cavorting with sentinels in the dark,
unchaperoned
?”

“My lord bishop! Of course not!”

“Then how do you know all this?”

“Dali told me.” Dali was Dalibor Notivova, Constable Karolis’s deputy. “He came to see me, but I was certainly never
alone
with him. Later I sent for Sir Karolis, too. He condescended to come eventually, although he kept me waiting long enough. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he would open the gate and let them in!”

Father had neither liked him nor trusted Count Vranov, the Hound of the Hills. Now Madlenka suspected that he had been behind the sorcery that had killed both Father and Petr, and she was convinced that the constable was in the Hound’s pay.

Bishop Ugne was looking thunderous. “Was Dalibor also the one who told you that Sir Karolis had not reported your father’s stroke to the king?”

“I promised that person I would not reveal his identity.”

The bishop took that refusal as confirmation, which it was. “My daughter, has it occurred to you that Dalibor Notivova may be after Sir Karolis’s job?”

“It would be an improvement.”

“Or your late father’s, even? He is a relative, is he not?”

She hadn’t thought of that and she felt herself blushing. Dalibor was a widower. But the idea was absurd—she could neither inherit the title nor pass it on to her husband. “I’ve known Dali all my life. He taught me how to groom a horse. He is distantly related to me, yes—third or fourth cousin. He’s the only surviving male relative I know of. Of course, his claim would be through the female line and wouldn’t be valid … would it?”

“Possibly not,” the bishop admitted. “Arturas the herald could tell you. But the direct male line is certainly extinct, which means that the king will have to appoint another lord of the Cardice marches. A local man and a distant relative, even on the distaff side, might have a chance. But Dalibor Notivova doesn’t, because he is a commoner and His Majesty has certainly never heard of him.” Ugne peered at her suspiciously. “Or did you mention his name when you sent the report to Mauvnik?”

“No. He … My informant made me promise not to. To mention his name, I mean! He refused to say why.” The devious cleric was tying her in knots.

Now the parrot had a cracker. The bishop smiled. “Then I have been misjudging him, just as you may be misjudging Count Vranov. You had no prior word that he was coming? I mean, it is both normal and commendable for a neighbor to come and pay his condolences after such a tragedy.”

“Not a word! The counts of Kipalban and Gistov both sent couriers with expressions of sorrow and promises to endow prayers for their souls, but not Vranov. Not a word. So why is he here with an army?”

“Your definition of an army may not agree with the constable’s, Madlenka. But on my way here I encountered Captain Ekkehardt, who was heading to the barbican to discuss this very problem with the constable. So why don’t we go there and see what our military experts have decided?”

God be thanked! Until this disaster of her father’s and brother’s deaths, Madlenka had never expected to feel grateful for the presence of the
landsknecht
mercenaries in the town. But if Constable Kavarskas was to prove false, the Germans might prove a counterweight to his treachery. Delighted at the thought of action, she darted across to one of the chests and began hauling out clothes, hurling them aside, burrowing ever lower, until she had found the winter robes. She kept her mother’s sable for herself—she was in mourning, after all—and tossed a dark brown fox fur one to Giedre.

A glance at the mirror called for a sigh. Black was definitely not her color; it made her pale face look like a skull. And the fur was not quite the same shade of black as her hat. She lowered her veil, so no one could see her at all. “Quickly, then!” she said.

Bishop Ugne had already opened the door and beckoned for the countess’s nurse, who had been sent out to wait in the dressing room.

Madlenka, Giedre, and Bishop Ugne left the keep by the upper door, and were saluted by the sentries. They crossed a drawbridge high above a street and then climbed some steps to the top of the curtain wall, where they were brutally assaulted by the torrent of wind that always blew there. The reverent bishop muttered something in the vulgar tongue and grabbed his miter just before it disappeared. His vestments billowed and flapped. Madlenka wondered if she dared offer to carry his crozier for him.

Heads bent into the gale, they hurried along the wide parapet with the black slate roofs of the town below them to their right. On their left, outside the battlements, the wall dropped sheer for thirty feet to a cliff about ten times as high, and below that lay the rocky bed of the foaming Ruzena River.

Had their eyes not been watering so hard, they would have seen the great valley ahead of them, widening southward until the embracing hills fell away and it merged with the forests of the Jorgary Plain, clad that day in fall gold. Fields and vineyards, villages both large and small, lay well concealed, for even high church spires failed to overtop the trees.

According to tradition, on his way to the Third Crusade the Emperor Barbarossa had acclaimed the shelf on which Castle Gallant stood as “designed by God to hold a fortress.” The great rocky slab blocking the western half of the valley had held a castle even in Barbarossa’s day, but in the three centuries since then, many successive rulers had worked hard to take advantage of the Lord’s generosity. The entire top of the little plateau had been fortified, and its sides chiseled and shaped. With steep cliffs rising above it on the west and the foaming waters of Ruzena flanking its other three sides, Cardice was renowned as one of the most secure castles in Europe. It had fallen to treachery twice, but it had never been stormed or starved into submission.

The valley ended abruptly about a mile north of the castle, under the ramparts of the Vysoky Range, which straddled the boundary between Jorgary and lands that had recently become part of Pomerania. Northbound
travelers, whether pilgrims, merchants, or fighting men, had no choice of route. They embarked on the Silver Road at High Meadows. From there the trail climbed steeply up the western side of the valley, crossing gullies on log bridges, negotiating hairpins, edging around steep spurs on cuts barely wide enough for a single oxcart. Very few places on the whole ascent would allow two carts to pass. Eventually the road arrived at Castle Gallant’s southern barbican, with a sheer drop on one side and a vertical cliff on the other. There the count’s men collected the tolls.

Anxious to reach a point where she could see what was happening at the gate, Madlenka set a very fast pace into the wind. Bishop Ugne would have had to trot just to stay level. He had to shout after her. “I doubt if your haste is wise, Madlenka. Ladies should arrive with dignity, not steaming like a horse.”

Annoyed, she slowed to a walk. Giedre was staying back. The bishop took this brief privacy as a chance to do some more holy nagging.

“You say you ‘sent for’ Sir Karolis last night? Whose man is he?”

She blinked away wind tears to look at him. “Well, he was my father’s man, of course.”

“But now? God in His almighty wisdom has seen fit to gather your father and your brother to Him. Whom does the constable serve now? Every man must have a lord, Madlenka.”

“I am my father’s heir.” But a woman. What a difference that made! Petr had been a year younger than she, just sixteen, but had he lived, the entire castle would be jumping to his bidding without question, obeying the least gesture of his little finger. But men never did that for a woman, for a woman was a frail and foolish creature interested only in frippery and finery and tantalizing men with lust to lead them to damnation.

She missed Petr even more than Father. Never at rest, ever dashing about, always laughing—it was impossible to accept that he was not just around a corner somewhere, or just about to ride in from the hills with some fresh venison. Nobody said so, but she suspected the whole county mourned the boy more than the man.

“Your mother is his relic,” the bishop declaimed, “and will have a dower interest in his estate, after the king has claimed his heriot. You undoubtedly will inherit a rich portion of whatever is left, but not the castle, daughter! This is a royal fortress. It did not belong to your father.”

“Then whom do you believe the constable serves, my lord bishop?” Not Madlenka Bukovany, certainly.