Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

Oh!

She gaped at him like a landed fish. He came from the king?

Already? But how…?

“This is a proclamation,” Bishop Ugne proclaimed, “issued by our beloved sovereign, King Konrad the Fifth, may God preserve him.”

The congregation responded automatically: “Amen!”

He read it out in Latin, then translated it into the vernacular. Everyone was staring at the newcomer, and he was looking down at Madlenka. He winked. She hastily lowered her veil to hide her blushes. Better a boy sent by the king than any son of Havel Vranov, but she had not expected anyone like this.

“…royal command… the said Madlenka Bukovany… in holy matrimony

…”

Anton Magnus, a count, a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav, no less! And she was to marry him, by the king’s command.

“…under our hand in our capital of Mauvnik, this eighteenth day of September in the year of Our…”

Madlenka Magnus? Countess Madlenka.

What had she expected? Love? Like a princess in a troubadour’s romance? He was little older than herself, she judged; handsome, she supposed; perhaps witty, or even charming, judging by his first two sentences to her.

“And now two more, if you please, my lord bishop.” Magnus handed the bishop another scroll.

He was to be the new keeper, lord of the marches. She would not be heading south to anywhere. She would be staying in Cardice for the rest of her life, if the Wends did not raze the castle next week, and that wasn’t going to happen if Count Magnus had arrived with an army at his back. He had arrived in time to save them.

What did the blood on his surcoat imply? Again she looked at Marijus, then at his father, farther along the row. They were both very pale now. What of the two hundred men they had left down at High Meadows? Had Magnus come with an army to fight the Wends and cleaned out the Pelrelmians in passing?

Bishop Ugne returned the third scroll, looking both shaken and overjoyed. “Now a brief prayer of thanksgiving, my lord?”

“Not yet,” Magnus said. “I think you had better recite those banns again with the proper names.” He offered Madlenka his hand.

She hesitated, then took it.

“Sorry I didn’t have time to clean up,” he murmured. “I hope you weren’t in love with that whoever he is?”

She shook her head. He was tall, but not too tall. She was tall, too, although she felt small at the moment.

“What parish, my lord?” the bishop asked.

“St. Ulric, in Dobkov.”

Where in the world was Dobkov?

“Very good. I publish the banns of marriage between…” He had to shout at the end, as the congregation began to cheer. If he still wanted to lead them in prayer he was again blocked by Magnus, who blithely turned his back on both priest and altar and raised mailed arms for silence.

“Thank you, good people of Cardice.” He frowned impatiently at another cheer. “There are a couple of things we must do right away. You, I believe, are Count Vranov of Pelrelm?”

Havel surged forward, beard drawn back to show snarling yellow teeth. “I am, and I would like to know how you brought those papers from the capital in less-”

“I ask the questions here!” Magnus roared.

The royal proclamations had been dated on September eighteenth, which had been the day of the funerals. Young Gintaras was a superb rider, but he could not possibly have ridden from Gallant to the capital in just three days, not even in midsummer.

The new count was not about to discuss that, evidently. “You have no doubt expressed your condolences to the countess and my future wife, so your business here is complete. Constable Kavarskas?”

Looking considerably worried, the constable saluted.

“See that Count Vranov and all his companions are escorted to the gate they came in by. Make sure it is locked behind them. But you stay here.”

Kavarskas saluted again and passed the order on to Dalibor with a nod.

“You will regret this when the Wends get here!” Vranov bellowed.

“They will be an improvement. May the Lord be with you, Havel.” Magnus twirled up his mustache and glanced down at Madlenka. “Vice versa would be another improvement,” he whispered. She choked back what might well have become a highly improper snigger. Her husband-to-be was nothing if not sure of himself. No, he was good at seeming so. She was close enough to him to see the sparkles of sweat on his forehead; he was not as confident as he was pretending.

Count Vranov glared for a moment, then turned on his heel and stormed off along the nave, limping at the gallop, followed by Marijus and their knights. Dalibor took two men and followed. The landsknechte all stayed. Perhaps they no longer saw the Pelrelmians as a threat.

“Anton, my son…”

“My humble pardon, my lord bishop, but there are two more very urgent things I must attend to right now, vital for His Majesty’s business. Constable Kavarskas, are you willing to swear fealty to me as count of Cardice and lord of the marches?”

Kavarskas was looking far from pleased, but he said, “Certainly, my lord. Bishop Ugne has testified to your right.” If he hoped the bishop would now change his mind, he was disappointed.

“And who,” Magnus demanded, “held your loyalty ten minutes ago?”

The constable’s eyes narrowed. “The king, my lord. Who else?” His hook was steadying the scabbard of his sword.

“You did not, perchance, see Havel Vranov as your temporary lord, in the absence of a count of Cardice?”

Kavarskas looked for support to the seneschal, the bishop, even Madlenka, but could not seem to find it. “He was the senior nobleman within reach, my lord, so of course I was required to give weight to his counsel.” He drew a deep breath. “And I think we all need an answer to the question he just asked you. How did you get here from Mauvnik so soon? Perhaps the reverend Bishop Ugne is wondering also.”

There was a clear accusation of Speaking there. Surely not! Madlenka shivered. But there and back again in eight days? They hadn’t expected Gintaras to reach Mauvnik in less than a week. She resisted an urge to edge away from her designated fiance.

“If the reverend bishop wishes to ask me such questions,” the count said cheerfully, “I shall give him answers. You are not the bishop and I am asking the questions. When was Count Stepan smitten?”

“On Saturday the fifteenth, my lord. A week ago yesterday.”

“And when did you send your dispatch to His Majesty?”

“When the count died. I saw no point in rousing alarm unnecessarily if-”

“What date?”

“He died late on Monday, so the courier left at first light on Tuesday. That was the eighteenth.”

“But not the first courier?” Magnus glanced at the much-reduced party in the front rank. “You are the seneschal?”

The old man smiled and bowed. “Ramunas Jurbarkas, your most humble servant, my lord.”

“Humility doesn’t impress me too much,” Count Magnus said airily. “Honesty does. When did you send your report to the king?”

“The fifteenth, my lord.”

“And why did you do so? It should have been the constable’s job.”

The old man looked sadly at Kavarskas. Then he said, “Because I was informed by a reliable source that, although a messenger had been sent right away, he did not take the south road. He was observed riding west.”

Magnus must know that Madlenka had countersigned Jurbarkas’s report. He couldn’t know that it had been her idea and she had bullied the old man into sending it. The count did not bring her into the discussion, though. Instead he raised his voice to a bellow.

“Llywelyn!”

There was movement at the back of the church.

“Wait!” the bishop cried, striding forward. “This is the Lord’s House-”