Wulf laughed. “No. I don’t believe she would be allowed within two bowshots of a crown prince in the middle of a war.”
Otto smiled at the crackling logs. “Yet it happened. He received her, listened, and believed. He had her examined by a panel of clerics, but in the end he gave her the army. It sounds to me as if that young lady had all the powers you have and was unscrupulous enough, or desperate enough, to use them to change a few men’s minds. She turned out to be one of the greatest generals since Caesar. She remade the army-no camp followers, no swearing or cursing, lots of hymn-singing. The army was transformed, inspired. It raised the siege of Orleans. Every time it met the English now, it won. But then Joan was captured by the Burgundians, who sold her to the English. The English put her on trial and convicted her of heresy.”
That made no sense at all. “How?” Wulf said. “Why didn’t her Voices rescue her from jail?”
“I don’t know. That’s something you must try to find out. Why didn’t they rescue her when the English tied her to a stake? The English burned her, then burned her remains twice more and threw the ashes in the river.”
“The first time would be the worst,” Wulf grumbled, reaching for the wine flagon.
“But I heard recently that the Holy Father reopened the case and decided that her conviction had been an error. That didn’t do her much good in this world, I grant you, but the Church did admit that it had made a mistake. Now listen! According to Father, Great-aunt Kristina used to hint that the Church doesn’t want saints, not live ones. Dead ones can’t argue, and people collect bits of them as holy souvenirs, but living saints who go around performing miracles could be embarrassing or even dangerous. Suppose they disagree with official doctrine and preach heresy? What if they call the pope names and denounce the Church as corrupt? Which it is, of course. Saints can perform miracles and the pope can’t, so which one would you believe?”
Wulf had never heard Otto speak like this before. “There already is a St. Wolfgang. One is plenty.”
Another candle went out.
“I’m serious, chaffhead,” Otto said. “You told me that your Voices have warned you of danger and won’t tell you what it is.”
“They never answer questions like that.”
“I just answered it for you. The Church doesn’t want miracles, so it calls what you’re doing witchcraft, acts of Satan. It’s all about power, Wulf, worldly power. You are a threat to the authority of the pope and the bishops. But if Cardinal Zdenek believed that you were an agent of Satan, he would never have dared use you. It wasn’t Anton the Spider wanted, it was you.”
Wulf nodded. “He had to take Anton because I’m only a kid.”
“You’re not a kid anymore.”
“But Anton’s ten feet tall, ruts like a goat, and beats men’s brains out with his mustache.”
“So he’s your puppet. You are the one the cardinal really hired.”
Wulf sniggered. He knew that Otto had been deliberately plying him with wine, and he was also very weary. “I don’t fancy telling Anton that!”
But Otto had struck to the heart of the problem, as usual, and now it was time to explain to him that Zdenek had not divided the rewards fairly. Yet Wulf still could not bring himself to talk about his love for Madlenka.
After waiting a moment, Otto sighed. “Back in the year Father died, a month or so after Marek was taken away, the Hartmannovas had a knighting celebration for Cousin Hans. Remember?”
“No.” That year Wulf had been twelve and fighting his own problems-strange noises and lights and the gnawing terror that he was growing up to be a Speaker like Marek.
“I went in Father’s stead, because he was too ill to travel. On the first night they held a ball and the first dance was a saltarello. There was a girl… every time we passed, our eyes met. When the dance was over I dragged my host through the crowd to her and had him introduce us. That was the end of the ball for both of us. We just sat in a corner and talked. Her name was Branka.”
Wulf swallowed a lump in his throat. “Am I so childishly obvious?”
His brother laughed. “Your eyes melted when you mentioned the beautiful heiress, but after that one time you ignored her, except to say that you think you healed her mother. Tell me about her.”
“There are no words. Her name is Madlenka. She’s glorious. Out of this world. Angelic. Clever, witty, feisty, mischievous…”
“Did you tell her that you love her?”
“And she loves me! I never knew it could happen so fast.”
Otto snapped his fingers. “Like that! I spoke with Branka’s parents the next day and when we got around to talking about dowry, I accepted their first offer. Branka and I have never regretted our marriage for a minute. But it doesn’t always have a happy ending, Wulf. Does Anton know?”
“No!” Wulf soaked in his misery for a few minutes, and finally said, “Anton wouldn’t care! If it has two legs and no crotch bulge, then he doesn’t care what face it wears.”
“Like Vlad-two nights is a long-term relationship. You’re like me, lad; you don’t keep your heart in your codpiece. I’m sure Anton would happily let you have her if she was any ordinary wench. But she isn’t, Wulf. She’s the key to his castle, a ward of the king, and any nonsense will land you in more trouble than you can imagine.”
“I know that, thank you. Not that I care about me. Only her.”
“Her, too. Oh, saints! You’ve really been hit hard, haven’t you? Cupid’s filled you plumb full of arrows. I’m sorry, Wulf, I really am. So tomorrow you plan to hand Anton’s letter to the cardinal, in person, and tell him you want the girl as your share?”
Wulf nodded. Coming from Otto it sounded even crazier than it had seemed before: suicide, self-immolation. Before he could say so, the last candle smoked and died, leaving only firelight. Otto heaved himself to his feet.
“Time to go. I am enormously proud of what you and Anton have done, Wulf. I’m humbled, honestly. No Magnus in three centuries has come close. One day your exploits will be added to the family chronicle in letters of gold, I promise you. And tomorrow, we’ll decide how I can best help you both.”
He took a new candle from the box on the mantel and lit it. He put it in a candlestick and handed it to Wulf, giving him a clap on the shoulder. “You’re half asleep. To bed. Sleep well, Sir Wulfgang.”
“There has been a mistake, my lord. I am Wulfgang Magnus, esquire.”
“You have proved yourself worthy of knighthood. Battle honors are no less worthy if they must be kept secret. Come along.”
Alerted by some guardian instinct, Whitetail awoke, heaved himself to his paws, and led the way to the door.
Wulf was to sleep in the main guest room, which was large by castle standards, but cold and musty. Many great lords and even royalty had slept there over the centuries, and the walls bore frescoes of their arms, some crude, some crafted in exact detail, some old and faded or even overlapped by newer work. A single candle flame did little to flatter them. He blew it out and set the candlestick on the table by the bed. Shivering, he stripped and slid in under the quilts. If one believed Otto’s flattery, he was not unworthy of his surroundings.
CHAPTER 25
Neither armored foe nor the dawn screams of roosters could penetrate the walls of Castle Dobkov. Flunkies out in the bailey could stoke ovens, thresh rye, or crank the windlass on the well without being heard inside.
Regrettably, female servants slept in the attics. They arose with the roosters and the ancient floor beams creaked. Ottokar angrily pulled the quilt over his ear, trying to will himself back to sleep. Warm, soft arms embraced him. The tendency for occupants to collect in the middle was both the joy and the curse of a feather bed.
“You’re awake,” Branka murmured.
He said, “No.”
“So what’s the news that kept you tossing and turning all night?”