“That would have been a dear gift for you.” The nobleman sat his horse a while, expertly curbing its restlessness. Auri shrank from the beast, it was so much bigger than the ponies she knew and never had she heard of riding one.
Decision came. “Fetch me a squad,” Ulfeld ordered.
“I’ll come too, my lord,” the sergeant said.
Ulfeld’s mouth bent upward. “No doubt you smell reward money. Indeed there is a price on Herr Jesper’s head. But keep your post.”
The Landsknechts muttered in their whiskers. Ulfeld gave them a look. They fell to a sort of attention; there was that gallows behind the city.
“We shall go to the inn,” Ulfeld said, “and see what there is to see, and afterward put some questions.” His gaze brooded on Auri. She straightened and glared back. “A wench from the Ditmarsh, I’ll be bound. No other basebom folk dare hold themselves so high. My father died there in King Hans’ day, when they opened the sluices on our army. Perhaps tonight—”
Sickness filled Lockridge’s throat.
Several more foot soldiers appeared. Ulfeld told them to bring the prisoners along, and rode on through the gate.
Viborg within was less attractive than from a distance. The streets were lanes where pigs rooted in ripe offal above which the stepping stones down the middle scarcely rose. With dusk setting in, few people were abroad. Lockridge saw a workman in his smock, bent from a lifetime’s toil; a serving maid with a basketful of bread; a leper who shook his rattle in warning as he tottered near; a laden ox-drawn wagon with great wooden wheels. They faded rapidly into the gloom that waxed between high-gabled houses already barred and shuttered against night robbers. The first spatters of rain stung his cheeks.
Then a sound broke through wind, foot-splash, hoof-clop, a high and striding peal. “Oh!” Auri exclaimed. “The Goddess’ voice!”
“Church bells,” Lockridge said. In all his desperation, he had to admit the sound was lovely; and so was the sight of the cathedral, dim across a market square. . . . The wind shifted and filled his nose with graveyard stench.
Not far beyond, Ulfeld drew rein. A wooden sign creaked as it swayed. By light leaking yellow through door and shutters, into the now heavy dusk, Lockridge could just make out a crudely painted lion rampant. The Landsknechts grounded their pikes with a bang. One hastened to hold the nobleman’s stirrup while he dismounted. Dully sheening in his breastplate and helmet, Junker Erik waited with drawn sword and let a soldier beat on the door.
“Open, you swine!” the German shouted.
The door groaned ajar. A stout little man peered out and said angrily, “We want none of your trade in an honest place—Herr Knight! I beg forgiveness!”
Ulfeld shoved him aside. Lockridge and Auri were hustled after.
The room was small. A twentieth-century man would bump his head on the sooty rafters if he stood erect, and the walls closed narrowly in. The floor was dirt, strewn with rushes. Lamps flickered on shelves to throw a dull light and many hulking shadows. A stove built of clay pots, in whose mouths a frozen hand or foot might be warmed, gave some heat; its crude vent gave more smoke, until Lockridge’s eyes smarted. A trestle table had not yet been taken down for the night. One man sat there with a pot of beer.
“Who else is guesting?” Ulfeld demanded.
“None, my lord.” It was unpleasant how the innkeeper cringed. “We get scant custom these days, you know.”
Ulfeld jerked his head. “Search.” He advanced on the lone patron, who remained benched. “Who are you?”
“Herr Torben Jensen Sverdrup, of Vendsyssel.” The gravelly bass was amiable, as from much drink. “Pardon me if I do not rise. I’ve carried Swedish iron in my leg for long years. Seek you someone?”
Ulfeld glowered at him. The man was big, he would have been big in any century, with ox shoulders above an impressive paunch. His face was made ugly by pockmarks and flattened nose, but the eyes were light and cheerful. Grizzled dark hair and beard fell unkempt to a doublet equally greasy. “Have you proof who you are?” Ulfeld asked.
“Oh, indeed, indeed. I am on lawful business, trying to get the beef trade started again, now it’s back where it belongs in well-born hands.” Sverdrup belched. “Will you drink with me? I think I can even spare a few pennies to treat your men.”
Ulfeld aimed his sword at the throat of the other. “Jesper Fledelius!”
“Ha? Who’s that? Never heard of him.”
A frightened feminine squeal from the rooms to the rear was followed by German laughter. “Ah, yes,” Sverdrup grinned, “mine host has a pretty daughter.” He peered at Lockridge and Auri. “That’s another nice little partridge you have with you, Herr. What’s the meaning?”
“I have heard—” Ulfeld’s look speared Sverdrup and the landlord—“that the traitor Fledelius is in this house.”
Sverdrup took a giant’s draught from his pot. “One hears many things. Are you not satisfied to have Skipper Klement in Viborg?”
“There’s a cell next his, and a headsman’s axe, for Fledelius. These strangers tell of an appointment with him. I must ask for letters that prove who you are.”
Sverdrup blinked at the prisoners. “I might well wish to be Fledelius, if so fair a lady craves to see him. But alas, no, I am only a poor old squire from the Skaw.” He fumbled in his clothes, dislodging a substantial colony of fleas. “Here. I trust your schooling is less rusty than mine.”
Ulfeld scowled at the parchment. His men came back. “None but the landlord’s family, Herr,” one reported.
“So, so, did I not tell you?” the innkeeper chattered. “Herr Torben has guested the Golden Lion in former years, my lord. He is known to me, and I have always had a good name, ask the burgomaster if Mikkel Mortensen is not an honest loyal man.”
Ulfeld tossed the letter on the table. “We will keep a watch,” he decided. “The outlaw may still show himself. But give him no chance of a warning. You two—” He pointed at a couple of his mercenaries. “Remain here for the time. Guard each door and arrest any who enter. Let no one leave. You others, follow me.”
“Will you not even have a pot with a lonely old man?” Sverdrup urged.
“No. I must see these prisoners questioned.”
If need be, with rack and pincers and the bone-crushing boot. For Auri—Through a mist that swirled, Lockridge stared at the man behind the table. “No, wait,” he croaked. “Help.”
The pouched eyes drooped. “I am sorry, little maiden,” Sverdrup mumbled. “But so many are dead, so many more soon to die.” He traced a cross.
A hand thrust Lockridge toward the door. He dug in his heels. The butt of a pike cracked across one knee. Pain lanced through him, he stumbled and cursed. Auri’s hood had fallen back, and a soldier snatched her by a lock of hair.
“No!” the girl screamed. “We belong to Her!”
Sverdrup’s mug banged down on the board. Auri drew a sign in the air. Lockridge couldn’t make it out, something of her own ritual, dead and forgotten, a blind cry—
The big man reached under the table and climbed stiffly to his feet. From the cloak that had covered it on the floor, a crossbow looked forth, cocked and loaded.
“Not so hasty, my lord,” he puffed. “Not quite so hasty, I beg you.”
Ulfeld spun on his heel. The sword gleamed up. German spears poised amidst obscene oaths.
If a bear could grin, it would look like the man who must be Jesper Fledelius. “Calmly, now, calmly,” he said. “One move, one least of little moves, and my lord the knight will not be so handsome any longer. We do not wish to distress the ladies of Viborg, do we?”
“They’ll kill you!” the tavern keeper wailed. “Jesus have mercy on us!”
“Well, they might try, after this lady I embrace has said her one sharp word,” Fledelius nodded. “But here is also my sword. It’s made meals off a good many Swedes, and Holsteiners, and even Danes. Naught is so tasty as a Dane who’s foresworn the old eagle—unless maybe a German hireling. We might have a most interesting discussion, we several. However, you, Herr Knight, would unhappily be forced to a spectator’s seat, and even though you would doubtless be given one befitting your rank in Hell, nevertheless, any of these lads who outlived the night would not be thanked for losing a life so precious. They might even be asked to dance on a rope’s end, eh? So do let us try to settle our dispute by peaceful, scholastic means, as is seemly for Christian men.”