One of the tournament marshals runs up to him. His words are making their way through the hum of the tribunes: “Congratulations to the valiant knight on his victory! According to the tournament tradition the winner has the right for a trophy. What detail of the armour would the noble knight wish to take? The spur? The gauntlet? The belt?..”
Lubina Rava looks at Siegfried. Excellent armour. Gorgeous. A cuirass of Milanese steel – the “goose chest”! – a Burgonet helmet in the latest fashion, with a triple visor, lamellar armour surpasses leather one in flexibility. And gold all over: the image of the griffon, the decoration of the vambraces and the spaulders... At any fair such armour would cost oodles of money. While Rava’s lands don’t bring decent income, and the prince Razimir is a skinflint...
“A spur? A gauntlet?!” laughs Lubina with the foreign, stolen laughter. “Hell no! According to the ancient rules I take for myself all the armour of my rival! Order to deliver it into my tent!”
He pulls his helm off, grinning victoriously in the face of the bewildered marshal.
It’s over.
The boy has learnt a proper lesson.
“...victory! I beat him! There’ll be no war!”
“Jendrus! You’re a hero! Let me kiss you!”
“Lukerda, remember about decencies! I can’t allow...”
“No, he’s a hero! He’s a hero all the same! Only... why are we still sitting in this cellar?!”
“Because our most respected chieftain made a mistake. The real commander Rava would never do it.”
“Do what?”
Jendrich was blinking, dumbfounded, looking around him. He was still there, in the tournament field, looking at the defeated Siegfried, grinning in the marshal’s face...
Giacomo Seingalt’s voice sounded surprisingly simple; neither mocking nor the habitual old man’s sarcasm. Only sincere regret: “The knight Lubina would not set his eyes upon Siegfried’s personal armour. Of course, how would you know that the tradition of taking the armour of defeated rivals doesn’t actually exist for at least forty years? Now the winner is satisfied with only an honourable trophy. To act in a different way means humiliating a defeated rival in public...”
The old man thrust his long hand into a heap of stuff behind him with a wry face. With a nasty gnash he extracted a cuirass to which there were fixed by clasps disproportionately big spaulders with crests.
“Presses on my side,” he explained, though nobody asked him a thing. “I do understand you, Jendrich. If you were tempted by this quite unassuming armour, what to say about that of the Maintz heir... For all that, you’re a robber, don’t take this for rudeness. It just didn’t occur to you that you had insulted Siegfried deadly. Formally it isn’t forbidden by tournament rules. But... The future margrave hasn’t forgiven you his public shame. Or rather, hasn’t forgiven it to the knight Lubina Rava, the commander of the prince of Opolie. I’m very sorry, Jendrich. No, I’m really sorry. You have almost made it...”
Distressing silence set in the cellar.
“Damn, but I’m!.. I...” Jendrich turned away gloomily, hiding his face.
It was heard how in the tavern above the Maintz men were bawling a song.
“Well, I think it’s my turn now,” the dependant made himself smile. “There is another way. Would the old margrave live longer... The beloved son had certainly poisoned his father or had organized his assassination. But he who is warned is armed. Ah, my friends, what hasn’t old Giacomo Seingalt happened to be! If you only knew! But a margrave – never. It would be a sin not to use such an opportunity. I’m ready, Martzin. Should I clap my hands too?”
The bony, still strong fingers reached for the image of a king.
The image’s head was broken.
That morning Dietrich von Maintz woke up with the feeling of close death – a feeling as sharp as the assassin’s stiletto.
For the first time in seventeen years of calm and welfare.
I’ll be murdered today, thought Dietrich with a frightful clearness. I’ll be murdered today, destroyed, eliminated, and young Siegfried will receive the crown of the Maintz Mark. The heir will become margrave, while I’ll become dust. Nothing. A vague memory, a ghost of the past. I don’t want to die. Don’t want to. Maybe it’s all because of the dream. It was the dream that had awakened in his soul a presentiment of death. At night Dietrich von Maintz had seen events that he would prefer not to recall. To forget forever. And in any case, not to resurrect them at night.
The rout of Maintz by the troops of Vitold the Bastard, duke of Henning.
It happened long ago – the heir Siegfried was five years old then. This... actually, what did it matter – where, when and how? Quite enough that it had once happened. And for long years it disinclined him from coveting his neighbours’ lands. Tamed his pride, moderated greed and vanity.
At times the margrave felt grateful to the duke Vitold for the lesson. And now...
“You’ll be murdered,” whispered the secret guest that had settled in his soul without asking for permission. “Be careful, old man.”
I’ll be careful, vowed Dietrich, answering the call. I’m not an old man. I won’t be murdered.
While making his morning toilet, he was watching the servants attentively. No one can be trusted. No one. Washing himself in a silver tub – the margrave had always been cleanly – Dietrich broke an arm of a young maid servant who was pouring hot water from a jug. It seemed to him that the maid was hiding a dagger in the jug, preparing to strike him in the back. The victim was sobbing, rolling up her eyes; bodyguards that had rushed into the bedroom were exchanging perplexed glances, while the margrave himself was soothing his heart with difficulty. His body was yet going strong – the maid’s elbow had cracked as a spill in skilful fingers, – but his heart was too worn out for such outbursts.
No, I won’t be murdered.
He drove the bodyguards out. Out!!! Sapheads, duffers, unable to distinguish an assassination attempt from the ordinary lord’s wrath... Then, after some considering, he called for the captain of the guard and ordered him to replace the guardians. The captain, a smart man, didn’t show interest in the cause of the disfavour. He just asked: “With whom to replace?” “Can I trust him?!” thought Dietrich, looking at the captain’s face. “He seems to be loyal. He’s got knight spurs from my hands. He dreams of barony. Or is he already suborned?! Looks straight, without blinking. Black eyes... black eyes, those of a sorcerer!..” The margrave ordered to bring him the list of the Gold Griffon squad and poked randomly at five names. This is safer. Fortuity will prevent them from doing what they’ve planned.
Who are “they”?
He didn’t know.
You’ll be murdered today, old man. No, I won’t.
“Provide the maiden with dowry,” ordered the margrave without looking at the maid who had fainted away. “On the cost of my treasury. Send her my private doctor. Let him not leave her till tomorrow. And marry... Marry her off.”
The doctor – that’s right. Let him not leave her. And not approach me.
Doctors are the main danger.
His heart calmed down and was beating evenly and strongly. Pretended to be young.
At breakfast Dietrich demanded to bring the chief cook into the hall. Let him stand near the table and taste all the dishes served for the beloved lord. Truffles. Deer meat. Hare pâté. Fruits. Wine. Pheasants in honey. Quails. Fish. Bread. In the end of the breakfast the cook, ready to fall on the floor any minute, was driven away by his hands. The margrave himself, satisfied with a piece of fresh bread and a goblet of spring water, was waiting for a long time: was it poisoning? It turned out to be indigestion. The cook had overeaten. Pheasants with fruits, pâté, steamed pike-fish... a bit too heavy. His wife permitted herself a surprised smile, but having caught her husband’s severe glance she halted. The heir, young Siegfried, pretended nothing was amiss.