Dave Duncan - Speak to the Devil

“Wulf? What’s the matter? Why’re you here? Interrupting me!”

Wulf waved him inside and shut the door. “Would I interrupt you if I didn’t have good reason? You haven’t signed yet?”

“I’m just about to. Had ink on the nib.”

Wulf pulled the papers out of the saddlebag. “This is worth twelve hundred florins. This makes eighteen hundred, and this one rounds out the full two thousand.”

He grinned at his oldest brother’s stunned expression. It was a shame Anton could not be there to enjoy the moment.

“Where did you get this?”

“It’s a gift from Anton to Vlad. From his wife’s dowry. See this bit? Antonius Magnus Comes Cardici — your little brother is now Count of Cardice, lord of the marches, keeper of Castle Gallant. Also a companion in the Order of St. Vaclav. He already shines brighter than any Magnus has ever done, Baron.”

“Anton, married? Count?” Otto clenched a fist the size of a loaf of bread. “If this is a joke…”

“I swear it is the truth.”

“Then I don’t need to sell the land!” Jubilation swiftly turned to horror. “I shook hands on it, Wulf!”

Selling land was about the worst thing a nobleman could do. It was failure, a betrayal of both ancestors and descendants. The fact that the staggering debt owed to the Bavarian, Baron Emilian, had been incurred by Vlad, not Otto, did nothing to relieve the sense of shame.

Going back on his word would be even worse, though.

“Wait!” Wulf said. “Let me think…” He would never claim that his modest share of Magnus brawn might be offset by having the best brain in the family. That didn’t mean he couldn’t believe it in private, of course. “Circumstances have just changed dramatically, Brother.”

The big man snorted. “You mean the fact that I don’t need the money now? In no way can that justify reneging on an agreement. I needed it when I shook hands.”

“No, I mean that Jorgary is at war. Pomerania has invaded. No one knows what will happen. King Konrad needs all his best warriors back, so he may pay off all the ransoms. The Wends may come this way. Anything is possible.” Only Anton could stop disaster, but he was irrelevant at the moment.

Otto seemed to grow even larger. His face darkened. “Who told you that?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now you just have to trust me. You don’t even need to tell them what the serious news is. It’s a state secret, so you couldn’t tell it even if you knew it. Take my word for it, and give them your own. Tell them the deal is off and their master, Count Whatever, will not want to go through with it anyway when he hears the news.”

Vlad notoriously could not tell a nod from a wink, and Anton wasn’t much better. Marek was a scholar and shrewd, but even he stood in Otto’s shadow when it came to understanding people. Otto could detect a lie at three hundred paces. And he knew Wulf wouldn’t lie to him anyway.

He beamed. “Welcome, then! Make yourself at home. I’ll go and tell them. By the way, who redecorated your face?”

“I did. It’s a long story.”

Some battles are better lost than won. Madlenka should have remembered that, because-Heaven knew-recently the battles between her and her mother had outnumbered the stars. Few with Petr and even fewer with Father, but Mother! At the slightest provocation, they went at it like Crusaders and Saracens.

No! Madlenka refused to undress to be inspected. She was a virgin, she would be a virgin on her wedding night, and she would prove it with the traditional blood spot. Until then, Dowager Countess Edita would have to take her word for it and so would the despicable, insufferable Anton Magnus. She knew instinctively that in his brother’s place, Wulfgang would not care whether she was a virgin or not. It would never occur to him to ask. Admittedly she would very likely have jumped into bed with him that morning if he had suggested such a thing, but he hadn’t, so it was nobody else’s business.

The countess insisted, loudly. Madlenka threatened to tear her eyes out if she tried. The countess threatened to call for help from Neomi and Ivana, her closest cronies. Madlenka swore she would tear their eyes out also, and if they jointly overpowered her now she would excecate all three of them later, two eyeballs at a time. Moreover, she would take the first opportunity to dispose of the hymenal evidence so that the outrage would do them no good in the long run. The countess slapped her. Madlenka slapped her right back.

It was regrettable that Anton had mentioned Wulfgang, because he had to be discussed and described. Only three days Madlenka had known him? And she thought she was in love? Absurd! The countess poured scorn. Love within three days was mere infantile delusion. Love was something that grew and ripened within a marriage, not a passing fit of juvenile lust. As for falling for a penniless younger son… A man of eighteen was barely out of swaddling clothes. No rank, no lands, no prospects? Not even a squire, a varlet? An esquire, practically a serf! Madlenka struck her mother again.

At the end of an hour, a truce was declared. Both parties were exhausted and disheveled, but Edita accepted her daughter’s oath, sworn on the Holy Bible, that she was still a virgin. Also, that her contact with the despicable debaucher, Wulfgang, had been limited to one brief kiss, with their mouths closed.

“We didn’t know it could be done otherwise,” Madlenka said sadly, and that almost started the battle again.

She had won it, though, which turned out to be a mistake. Having recovered their poise, they went in search of the count to reassure him on the vital question of his betrothed’s virtue. He was closeted with Bishop Ugne, so they were refused admittance. They spent another hour in the solar, glaring at each other in silence.

When they were at last conducted to Petr’s room, the new count’s temporary chamber, they found him still resting on the bed but looking ominously pleased with himself.

“I am relieved to inform you, my lord,” Edita proclaimed, “that your suspicions about my daughter were baseless. Not that I ever feared otherwise, not for a moment.”

“I am delighted to hear it, my lady. And I have good news for both of you. The lord bishop and I discussed this unusual situation at length over some wine. We agreed that it would be unseemly and irreverent to hold a formal wedding so soon after the funerals. On the other hand, the king’s command makes no mention of delay. His Reverence agrees with me, therefore, that a discreet handfasting would satisfy the spirit of the royal edict, as he put it, without disrespect to the letter. As long as we say suitable vows before witnesses, we shall be married in the eyes of Mother Church. Her formal, public blessing can follow at a more appropriate time.”

Madlenka muttered, “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” the count said, beaming. “We must all do our duty and be true to our allegiance, no matter how it may conflict with our personal desires.”

“I entirely agree!” said the countess.

That was when Madlenka realized that winning the battle had lost her the war. Handfasting was an antique, obsolescent custom that hung on only in remote areas where a priest might not be available in time to bless an imminent union in time for it to be holy matrimony instead of sinful fornication. It was unheard of among the nobility, and the countess would normally have rejected the suggestion with outrage. But a formal wedding during double mourning would be even more scandalous. A private handfasting would solve the Madlenka problem admirably.

Count and dowager countess waited expectantly for Madlenka to comment.

She had no defense left. She had promised Wulf that she would wait for him for forty days, but to mention that would make matters much, much worse. To hint that she suspected him of having supernatural powers would be calamitous. To protest that she had known Anton for barely three days would just prompt her mother to remark yet again that she had first met her future husband on the day before their wedding. To defy the king, her legal guardian, would result in a one-way trip along Sprosty Street to the Poor Claires’ convent, there to await His Majesty’s pleasure.