More steps. He turned to watch the landsknecht captain emerge through the trapdoor, massive in his padded linen armor, shrewd eyes glittering above a bush of yellow beard.
Anton straightened up. “Good evening to you, Kommandant.”
“And to you, Count.” The big man scowled through his hayfield. Looking up to other men must be a rarity for him.
“Come over here.” Anton led him over to the town side. “Barbarossa said this was a perfect place for a fortress, so I’m told.”
“Maybe it was-then.”
“How could Count Stepan have been so incredibly stupid as to let it fill up with houses like this? Even with slate roofs, the place is one big firetrap.” There should be houses for the garrison, yes, but most of the land inside the curtain wall ought to be open space.
Ekkehardt grunted, perhaps surprised that this weedy youth had worked that out. “Pestilence.”
“Explain.”
“I mean, it’s fifty years since pestilence last came through here to weed it out. The townsfolk breed like mice. The counts didn’t notice, or weren’t hardhearted enough to send them away. Who cares, in peacetime?”
That made sense, but it had been a terrible mistake, and Anton Magnus was going to have a hellish struggle to put it right before the Wends arrived and started sending fire arrows over the walls.
Now to more urgent business… “I haven’t had time to read over your contract, Kommandant, but I’m sure we can agree on some increase. What I want right now is your views on how to defend that north road when-”
The heavy guttural voice cut him off. “My advice you can have for free, my lord. But all the money in Jorgary will not keep me and my lads here. We’re packing now and will be gone at dawn.”
After a moment, Anton decided that he had heard that correctly. “Why?” he croaked.
“One of our women is sick. She’s an archer’s wife, so he says, but she takes on others and he gets a cut.”
“All armies have those.”
“But she’s sick, and now she’s showing black lumps in her armpits. We are leaving. No argument. I didn’t want to blurt it out in the church and start a panic.”
“Thank you,” Anton muttered. It was more than a century since the Great Pestilence had devastated Christendom, but local outbursts of plague still happened from time to time, reaping a dreadful harvest. Some wretches suffered for days, but a man in perfect health could find spots on his chest and be dead in a few hours. Livid spots on the skin or lumps in groin or armpit warned of imminent death. The invalids in the infirmary were probably approaching the final stages of the fever. Likely Wulf had caught it from them while he was there. Anton himself might have caught it, and that brainless doctor who had not yet diagnosed the problem was doomed.
When you think things cannot get worse, they always do. All his dreams of glory came tinkling down like icicles in sunshine.
Wulf would tell him that that’s what he got for accepting help from the devil.
CHAPTER 16
Madlenka knocked. In a moment Radim peered out, then emerged and closed the door behind him. He was red-eyed and unshaven, having missed half a night’s sleep. He would not sleep on duty: Father would never have promoted him to secretary had he not been diligent to a fault.
“He’s awake, my lady. He tries not to show it, but I think he’s still in a lot of pain.”
“Well done. We’ll take over now. Go and catch some rest. The count is not up yet.”
As Radim limped off along the corridor, she opened the door and stood aside to let Giedre carry in the tray. The window shutters and the bed curtains were open. Squire Wulfgang turned his head on the pillow to see who had arrived. His face was still swollen and multicolored.
But his eyes were golden!
“Good morning, Squire Wulfgang. I am Madlenka Bukovany. How are you feeling this morning?”
He licked his puffed lips. “Puzzled.”
“Puzzled by what?”
“I hurt so much that this must be purgatory. Why am I seeing angels?”
“I think he’s better,” Giedre said, fussing with the food on the tray.
“Usually I’m much better than that, my lady. Sometimes even witty.”
Madlenka caught herself smiling. “May I present my companion and best friend, Giedre Jurbarkas? Are you hungry? We brought you some beef soup.” She caught up a spare pillow. “Can you raise yourself, or would you rather we lifted you?”
He tried to move and winced.
She said, “Giedre, you go that side.”
Giedre shot her a disapproving look. She would be able to reach him while standing beside the bed, but Madlenka would have to climb up and kneel beside him. Why not? Nothing ventured, nothing won. She lifted her skirts knee-high and went ahead. Ah, if Mother were to make a miracle recovery and walk in to find her daughter in this compromising position? Or, the count? Much worse!
But no one did. The squire pulled up his arms to lever himself, the women took hold of him to help, and Madlenka could see that he was at least half naked. The situation grew more interesting-and incriminating-all the time. Even slight movements seemed to hurt him. He grimaced, but did not complain, and the three of them together lifted him enough to prop him in a reclining position. Despite the discolored swellings, his arms and shoulders were thick, all hard, firm muscle so unlike her own soft flesh. He smelled nice.
Madlenka scrambled off the bed and reached the soup before Giedre did. “Bring that stool!” she commanded and went around to the other side of the bed so she could sit close to him. She was much amused by Giedre’s expression, but unrepentant. Her lord and master, the count, had ordered her to look after his brother.
Wulfgang needed his face shaved and his hair brushed. She might see to those personally. She popped a spoonful of soup in his mouth.
“Too hot? Too cold?”
“Perfect,” he sighed, but it wasn’t clear from the way he was staring at her whether he meant the soup or her. “Tell me what happened yesterday, when Anton arrived.”
So she fed him soup and information. He drank some watered wine but refused anything that needed chewing.
She decided that shaving him would be a little too personal and might cause Giedre to have apoplexy, so she sent for the castle barber. While he was attending to her patient, she went off to check on Mother, who was still curled up like a frightened caterpillar and about as responsive.
When she returned to the squire, she found Anton there. He kissed her on the lips, which was brazen of him in public, but she managed to smile after it was over.
“Your patient is obviously thriving under your care, my lady,” he said.
“I think he’s being very brave.”
“Oh, all we Magnuses are tough. I’m going to go exploring the town. Will you be my guide?”
“I’d love to, but I shall have to go and change first.”
He shrugged, losing interest. “It’s raining, and I know how women hate to get their hair wet. This afternoon, perhaps?” Then he left.
Giedre rolled her eyes. Wulf was frowning.
“Well, at least he’s not in armor now,” she said, going around to the stool beside him. “Do you need anything, squire?”
“I need you to call me Wulf. I also need to stare admiringly at you for about two hours. It is very beneficial for me.”
“Very embarrassing for me, though.”
“Nonsense. You should find it flattering, because I’ve never done it before with anyone.” He had a wonderful smile. “And you mustn’t make fun of my brother’s armor. He’s very proud of it. Did he show you the dent?”
“No,” she said, intrigued. Was her husband-to-be a war hero after all? “Does it record a narrow escape?”
“Very narrow,” Wulf said solemnly. “The mail was specially made for him-that’s traditional, and in his case it had to be, because of his height. Designed in Milan, made in Augsburg; the best. Good armorers prove their work by firing an arquebus at it to show that the ball will not penetrate. Then they engrave a testimonial around the dent. I told him he ought to make doubly sure by proving it again while he was wearing it, and standing closer. That was the narrow escape.”