Wulf sat down, took up a pen, and signed Wulfgang Magnus, Esquire in a fair hand, adding the date. He unfolded the thickest of the papers.
“That’s written in Latin,” the old man said impatiently.
“So I see. I’ve known beehives with less wax, too. Hmm… The two gentlemen with the Italian names, on behalf of the Medici Bank of Florence, witness that the aforesaid bank will tender to the gentleman with the German name or his heirs and successors the sum of twelve hundred florins on the return of this document. Signed and sealed. Then he, the first party of the second part, instructs the parties of the first part to tender instead to a gentleman with a French name, and they add two more seals. He’s from Bruges, so I suppose this went north with the spice trade and came back with wool? Then four others. And lastly my dear brother’s seal and signature, witnessed by the bishop, no less, tells the bank to tender the loot to Baron Ottokar Magnus of Dobkov. It gets around, doesn’t it? A harlot of a document!”
He folded it up. “It should have been made out to Baron Emilian of Castle Orel, in Bavaria.”
“The count could not recall that name.”
Typical! Wulf reached for the other two and glanced at them. “This one is for six hundred florins and this one for two hundred. The total must be very close to two thousand florins, mustn’t it?”
Jurbarkas was watching him with some effort to seem amused. “My apologies, squire! I underestimated your talents.”
Wulf grinned. “You were judging me by my brother, perhaps?”
“Certainly not!” But the seneschal turned noticeably pink. “Just by a lifetime of dealing with squires. Is there anything else I can do to assist? Anything you want?”
“There’s one thing you can do,” Wulf said, rising, “but it won’t be easy.”
“Anything!” The seneschal stood up also.
“Find a suitor worthy of that beautiful and charming daughter of yours.” He bowed his farewell. One of Anton’s first jobs should be to find and train a replacement seneschal.
Since he was already down at ground level, he went next to the stable, where he chose a fine chestnut courser named Copper and ordered that he be saddled for a journey. He had no luggage to pack. He browbeat the armorers into giving him a sword, donating the remains of his armor to the Castle Gallant militia in exchange. Realizing then that he was starving, he tracked a scent to the kitchen and told a couple of pretty girls to pack a roast ox for him to take on his journey.
He ran back upstairs to say his farewells.
CHAPTER 21
Count Magnus of Cardice was aware that he did have some shortcomings and that sitting still was one of them. He could sit a horse as well as any man alive-even keep up with Wulfgang, four times out of nine-but sitting in bed leaning against a pile of pillows and listening to Madlenka Bukovany reading from Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival was sheer torture. He tried to look interested, struggling with the antique high German and taking his cue on when to smile or seem sad from the inevitably present Giedre.
He had work to do, organizing the defense of Castle Gallant, and he couldn’t do it in bed while pretending to be recovering from a major loss of blood. The bedroom setting was making him increasingly aware that it was two days since he parted from the overwhelming, oversexed, overripe Baroness Nadezda. Another night of abstinence would make concentration utterly impossible. Even now he was hard put not to ogle his future wife too openly.
Madlenka had spurned his suggestion that they get on with the meaningful part of the marriage and take their time to plan the ceremonial part for next year. For the life of him he could not see the objection to this. By the king’s command they must marry and kings’ commands should be obeyed promptly. A sheltered damsel like Madlenka could not understand the severe suffering that celibacy imposed on a healthy young man. He must get rid of her busybody chaperone and explain that if she did not consent to handfasting, the alternative was that he take a mistress.
Or should he get rid of Madlenka and explain this to Giedre?
Madlenka was not the type he would have chosen for his countess. She was striking enough in a classical way, but she had the coloring of a corpse and even her shapeless mourning garments could not hide her skinniness. What sort of midget babies could she push through those hips? What sort of pathetic tits would she offer her husband to play with? Giedre, now, was plump and blessed with the sultry Mediterranean look that could square a man’s shoulders, puff out his chest, and so on.
A tap on the door announced the arrival of Radim with ink, wax, and the fair copy of the report. The boy had done a fine job with the drafting. Anton had ordered only enough changes to make his own actions sound more like a breathtaking feat of rescuing a wounded subordinate and less like attempted suicide while of unsound mind.
He had that part read to him again to make sure the amendments were satisfactory, then signed his name at the bottom: Cardice. He gazed at that proudly for a moment and then-with a sense of sheer wonder-added CStV. No Magnus before him had ever been appointed to the Order of St. Vaclav.
As Radim departed, in wandered Wulf, his normally affable expression distorted by facial bruises into ogreish menace. He looked even worse when he smiled.
“I’m away,” he said. “I hope this is not goodbye, Your Countship.”
But it could be. Anyone going on a long journey might disappear and never be heard from again.
“I wish you godspeed, Brother. Here’s my report to His Majesty. It is late to be starting out. The sun will set in an hour. You sure you won’t stay over and leave at dawn?”
“No.” He came around to the side of the bed to give Anton a farewell hug. “God bless,” he said, “and may He grant you good fortune. You’ll need it,” he added softly.
“You don’t have to do this. I have lots of good horsemen here in Cardice who could carry my dispatch south.” In the next month or so, miracles would rank very high among Castle Gallant’s requirements.
Wulf chuckled. “When did you ever know me to change my mind? Except when I used to promise to kill you, I mean, and that was only after Father begged me.”
“Never. But I’m going to need your help, Wulf.” He meant miracles, but mustn’t say so.
Wulf understood, because he shook his head very slightly. “I do intend to make it back here safe and sound. Don’t slaughter all the Wends before I can get my share.” He turned to Madlenka. “And the pulchritudinous countess designate? Farewell, my lady. You were most exceeding kind to the wounded sparrow who took refuge on your windowsill.”
“Farewell to you, squire. I am distressed that you cannot stay longer with us.”
Wulf lifted her hand to kiss her fingers. “Maid, in thy prayers be all my sins remembered.”
She blushed.
Blushed?
“And just what does that mean?” Anton barked.
“Nothing,” Wulf said hastily. “Farewell to you, too, my lady Giedre, and my thanks for your kindness also.” He vanished out the door and closed it.
Madlenka opened the book again. “More Parzival, my lord?”
Sod Parzival, and his horse, too! “No. First I would like to know why you should be remembering my brother’s sins in your prayers?’
She stared at him with a very good imitation of blank innocence. “It is only an expression, my lord, a politeness.”
“Not, perhaps, because they were your sins, also? That you were sinning together?”
Now she sprang to her feet, slapping the book shut. “My lord, that is a vicious insinuation! You asked me to see that your brother was well cared for, and I tended him myself. But we were never alone together. Always Giedre or others were present. Your remarks were unworthy of your rank and my honor. You owe me an apology.”
Anton’s temper surged up like bile, almost choking him. If he were free to jump to his feet and storm around the room he might be able to deal with this conspiracy, but his lower half was not presentable and must remain under the covers.