Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

Father Czcibor must have suspected, but had turned a blind eye. Ottokar had asked about the problem once in a while, but Vladislav and Anton never mentioned it. Wulf had assumed that Anton had completely put it out of his mind until that whispered appeal at the hunt. Well, today was providing a rude introduction to Speaking for Anton. He expected to be in control in any dealings with his younger brother and now he wasn’t. No doubt his jaw was very tightly clenched inside his bevor.

A monastery gate always faced west, to the sinful world, just as a church faced east, to the direction of sunrise and hope and the coming of the Kingdom. Hooves clattered on stone as the visitors passed under the arch into a covered passage. A man emerged from a doorway and bowed to the noble visitors. He was a lay servant, not a tonsured monk.

Wulf made a determined effort to control his nausea and do his duty as a squire would. Technically he wasn’t a squire, because Anton had not yet been knighted, but no one else would know that.

“Count Magnus, companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, lord of the marches of Cardice, come in peace.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up like partridges. No doubt he was surprised by a count traveling with a retinue of less than a hundred. Nevertheless, he recognized gentlemen and bowed again. “His Lordship is welcome to Koupel. Does he come seeking hospitality, or healing, or a retreat from the turmoil of the world?” He spoke the common tongue with an accent even worse than Mauvnik’s.

Anton glanced at Wulf’s face, which was probably as green as the hills, and took over the negotiations. “I can tarry only briefly, turning aside from my path for a brief visit with my brother, who is one of the monks here.”

The gatekeeper’s face look on a wary expression. No commoner lightly refused a nobleman, especially one of Anton’s exalted rank. “The rule of St. Benedict does not allow personal visitations, my lord.”

“We shall see if an exception cannot be made in exceptional circumstances. I will speak with the abbot.”

The gatekeeper’s face indicated that he strongly doubted that, but he did not say so. The visitors were admitted to the court, which was the size of a smallish meadow, entirely enclosed by buildings, of which those nearest the gate were obviously stables. The skyline ahead was dominated by the church in the background, its two great towers and rose window looming over many lesser, lower buildings. Those nearest to it, or even attached to it, were housing for the monks, their hospital, library, scriptorium, and other study areas. Nearer the court would be workshops, storerooms, servants’ quarters, and certainly the hostelry, for monasteries offered almost the only safe refuges for travelers. This grassy area was thus a halfway house between the cloister and the world. Only very favored guests would be allowed to proceed farther in, and no inmate would be allowed to venture farther out without special permission, rarely granted. Early on a Sunday morning, there was no one else in sight.

Anton and Wulf dismounted and turned in their weapons; a more senior layman was fetched. Wulf concentrated on controlling his belly spasms and left negotiations to his brother.

The long lad put on quite a show. After years of watching Father and then Ottokar, plus many noble visitors to Dobkov, he knew exactly how to act the lord. He twirled his mustache, he flaunted his baldric and his baton; he used his height to overawe the senior gatekeeper, two successive novices, and three monks of steadily increasing age and rotundity. Best of all, his overwhelming youthful arrogance must seem so insufferable to these persnickety holy recluses that none of his victims would notice the nausea-racked boy behind him.

It took time, though. They sat on a stone bench and watched servants crisscrossing the courtyard, attending to the minimal Sunday chores. Wulf’s innards gradually settled themselves. The bench faced east and the sun bothered him, so he pulled his sallet down, leaving only a narrow gap between its brim and the bevor that protected his chin and mouth.

Anton said, “Why are you hiding?”

Because he felt safer, somehow, not showing his face. But he said, “Sun is bright. Here comes someone.”

A monk in a black Benedictine habit came pacing across the grass to tell them that they would not be allowed to speak with Brother Marek. Knowing that a monk would be able to read, Anton dug in his satchel for one of his imposing warrants and negotiations continued.

Eventually, against all odds, instructions arrived to deliver the visitors for inspection by Abbot Bohdan. Clinking and clanking, they followed a disapproving, elderly monk through a cloister, whose pillars were fashioned of lovingly carved stone, then across an obsessively tended garden, until they reached the abbot’s residence abutting the north side of the church.

The abbot was eating breakfast. The abbot did very well for himself. His board was liberally spread with dishes-two of fish, one of eggs, a bowl of frumenty, a basket of apples, a roast goose, and a boiled ox tongue. Apart from a servant who hovered behind him, ready to carve him another slice of goose, or refill his crystal wine cup, he was eating alone, seated at the far end of a table that would hold a dozen. It was furnished with gold candlesticks, the fireplace was carved marble, the walls hung with tapestries, and the mullioned windows shone with butterfly-bright images of saints and angels.

He beckoned with a plump hand for the visitors to approach. The monk who had brought them remained by the door.

As much as a man could swagger in armor, Anton advanced along the hall with his humble servant shuffling at his heels. Wulf’s mouth tasted of vomit and he feared that he would soon start retching again. He left his sallet down and his face hidden. That still felt right, though he didn’t know why.

Abbot Bohdan was undoubtedly the fattest man he had ever seen, swathed in acres of black Benedictine wool. His face hung in folds below eyes like finger holes in dough. His cowl was set back to reveal an almost bald skull and hairless face, both of them beaded with jewels of sweat. He was tearing strips of flesh off a goose drumstick and apparently swallowing them whole. His piggy stare never left the visitors as they advanced.

Anton halted and saluted. “My lord abbot.”

The abbot reached for a gold chalice and took a drink. “What d’ju want with Brother Marek?”

“Oh, largely just a fraternal visit. It has been many years since we saw our good brother.”

“Magnus has renounced the world. To remind him of his former life of sin would not help him in his devotions and dedication. It would be a distraction and an unkindness.”

“There is more. May I speak in complete confidence?” Anton asked airily.

“Why is your companion hiding his face?”

“Because I told him to. He went on a disgusting debauch last night and is currently suffering the penalty. The sight of him is more than the rest of us should have to bear. About Brother Marek?”

Curtains of flesh seemed to sink even lower over the nasty little eyes. “I give you two minutes to explain why I should listen to you for a third.”

“There was an incident back before Brother Marek entered the cloister. I am charged to find out if he remembers anything of it.” Anton was making it up as he went along-Wulf recognized the tone. “I regret that I am forbidden to go into details, but…”

“Forbidden by whom?”

“By the man who gave me this baton.”

The abbot shrugged his great shoulders and took a lengthy draft of wine. “Who is your companion? What is the real reason he refuses to show his face?”

“His name is Wulfgang Magnus. He is my squire and brother to both me and Marek. I told you why he is being disciplined. Father Abbot,” Anton said sharply. “I am on a mission of great moment and did not come all this way out of my road to discuss family trivia. I have the honor to be a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, which numbers among its members many distinguished men, including Cardinal Zdenek and Archbishop Svaty, Primate of Jorgary. I have a royal warrant I could show you, but to brandish that at you would seem like a threat. Come, surely a few minutes’ talk with one of your holy flock cannot imperil his soul irredeemably? Is his faith so delicate? Must I report to my superiors that you were contumacious?”