Dave Duncan - When the Saints

The priest barked, “No!”

The youth agreed with a laugh. “No, Father. His Highness forbade it, but said to try and see if he would be crazy enough to submit.”

Wulf discovered he was crazy enough to argue. “I don’t mind. I did say they could tie my hands.”

“I mind!” Father Michal said. “That would add murder to suicide.”

“Then we are ready, Squire Wulfgang,” Augustin said. “If you are quite sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Go, then. They do say the devil looks after his own!”

Wulf looked at him sharply, but Augustin’s pretty face was showing no superstitious dread, just amusement-and possibly even admiration.

He headed Morningstar over to about the place where Anton had commenced his madness, and the courser suddenly balked. He reared, punching the air with both front hooves and whinnying in terror: Oh, no! Not that again! Big chump! Even without Speaking, Wulf could have handled that nonsense, and now he merely patted the massively muscled neck and tweaked him into fighting mood. You have done this before! You can do it! You are the best, the strongest. Show all those mares down there, stallion!

Then they were off, straight down that impossible cliff. To increase its speed, a horse must lengthen its stride, and soon Morningstar seemed to be flying, feet barely touching the ground. The hedge came rushing at them, and Wulf had only a moment to wish someone could tweak away his own terror before he was fully occupied with getting his horse in position to jump. Up, over the first hedge. Down into the water. And up over the second hedge. Had any horse ever jumped quite that high? And managed to land safely?

Which he did, if only just.

Thump, thump, thump, as Morningstar came to a halt, whinnying in terror. Wulf patted him and calmed him. Otherwise, silence. Not a cheer. Maybe they didn’t believe their own eyes. Did they have Speakers present, who would have seen Wulf blaze like a comet as he came over that second hedge? Morningstar was shaking like an aspen tree. His rider wasn’t much better, waiting for screams of “Satanist!” Wulf slid from the saddle and gave the reins to a wide-eyed groom.

He walked stiffly over to where Crown Prince Konrad was standing, hands on hips and face thrust forward in a massive glower. He looked even uglier in daylight than he had under the lamps last night. His riding cap hid his batwing ears, but the all-over smallpox scars were even more obvious. His teeth were as crooked as a heron’s nest. The only parts of him that a man might envy were the oversized chest and shoulders, but they cruelly emphasized how puny and bowed his legs were. Poor Konrad! He was no older than Wulf and already looked dissipated.

Around him stood his sycophants like a grove of lilies in their hunting clothes of Lincoln green. They cleared a path for the hero, but all faces were staying blank until they saw how their leader responded. The correct reaction would be to praise Wulf’s courage and horsemanship, but was Konrad man enough to do that? He might feel that he had been made to look a fool, although then he would be confessing that he had come to witness a spectacular suicide.

Before Wulf could drop to his knees, one of the courtiers whipped off his cloak and spread it on the mud for him. Several applauded, others scowled because they hadn’t thought of it first. It was a showy gesture, but Wulf’s Italian hose might be worth as much as the cloak. He knelt.

“Incredible!” the prince squeaked. That childish voice was surely the cruelest of all the tricks that malicious Nature had played on him.

The onlookers cheered and shouted agreement.

Wulf said, “I humbly apologize for keeping Your Highness waiting. I confess I lost my way.”

“It was well worth the wait. You have not been knighted yet?”

“No, sire.”

“We must put that to rights. Jozef, give me your sword.” He took it and tapped Wulf on the shoulders. “In recognition of your incredible courage and horsemanship, I dub you Sir Wulfgang Magnus and welcome you to the Christian fellowship of knighthood.”

Again the audience cheered.

About to rise, Wulf realized that he had not yet been told to do so, and remained where he was.

Konrad glanced around the audience to judge its mood. “I cannot make him the king’s master of horse. Yet. But I could appoint him master of mine.”

“It was inexcusably-”

“I have not finished, Sir Wulfgang.”

Wulf gulped into silence.

“After all,” the prince continued, “since my own master of horse died while trying to do what Magnus has just achieved, this stripling is obviously a better rider. You accept the appointment, Sir Wulfgang?”

“It was unpardonably impudent of me to mention that possibility last night, sire. And on hearing now how it touched on the death of Your Highness’s friend, I am doubly ashamed. I shall be rewarded far more than I deserve just to receive Your Highness’s pardon for my crudity. But if Your Highness is serious, then no honor would please me more.”

That was about the truest thing Wulf had said for hours. He had gained the access to Cabbage Head that he would need to keep him tweaked in the right direction. Even years of groveling servitude would be a small price to pay for survival and marriage to Madlenka.

“Then you are appointed and must swear the oath. Where’d our marshal go? Ah, Jozef, give him the words.”

Wulf put his hands within the prince’s and swore in the ancient way to be his man. So now he was on staff! If he hadn’t yet caught up with Anton, he had at least confirmed that the younger Magnuses were rising fast. He stood up and glanced at the faces around him. Their expressions seemed to alternate between narrowed suspicion and fixed rictus smiles. He was an interloper in the hive.

“Time to go, or we’ll be benighted,” Konrad announced, and the chorus murmured the inevitable agreement. He turned to regard Wulf again.

“Where are you living now, Sir Wulfgang?”

“At the Bacchus, sire.”

“We’ll find you quarters in the palace. Speak to Lubos. He’s my chamberlain-the skinny one with buck teeth and the longest cock in the kingdom.”

“Has he met my brother Anton, sire?”

“Oh, was that why Zdenek made him a count?” The future king bellowed with laughter at his own wit, and his future court joined it.

The prince rode a showy black stallion. It was real horseflesh, though, willing to try a little resistance even at the end of a hard day. He brought it under control with no visible effort. Of course he rode in the van, and of course he wanted Wulf at his side. He would naturally be curious about this mysterious adventurer who had sprung out of nowhere. They had not gone twenty yards before the questions started.

“You are warrior-trained?”

“I am, sire.”

“So you joust?”

“Some, sire, although my brother the baron puts more emphasis on firearms and infantry training.”

“And you wrestle, of course?”

“I do.” Wulf had seen that coming. There were few men in Dobkov who could throw him now. Anton wasn’t one of them, but Vlad would likely still take him-although maybe not, because he would be slower now. Did Crown Prince Konrad allow others to beat him? Who could prevail against those shoulders?

“Excellent! So do I. Best of three throws tomorrow morning. Tell me more about yourself.”

Wulf recited some Magnus history. He decided that the other riders could not eavesdrop over the beat of two hundred hooves, and even Speakers must have trouble spying on a moving target, so this would be a good place to start his new career. “Your Highness is aware that we Magnuses pride ourselves on our unwavering loyalty to your noble house?”