When the Saints (32 page)

He saw a small, sparse room with a very large crucifix on the wall, a compromise between a private bedroom and a monk’s cell. Some light and—he now registered—raised voices drifted in through chinks in an ill-fitting shutter, and he had certainly slept well into Saturday. He had vague memories that he had been kissing Madlenka when that little priest arrived with the men-at-arms, and then he was moved, and saw a bed right in front of him. He must have been told he could sleep there, because he had started dropping his clothes where he stood. He certainly wasn’t wearing them now. He didn’t see them lying on the floor, either, but what appeared to be neatly folded clothes lay on a little chest near the door. That other box was almost certainly the commode.

Neither luxurious nor squalid, this accommodation did not match what he would expect of the Inquisition.

He padded over bare boards in bare feet and found the relief he needed. He Looked for Madlenka and saw nothing. Anton? Otto? Nobody. Gallant, Dobkov … nothing. He was a workaday again. However much he despised his inhuman powers, to be deprived of them was to be struck blind and impotent. A small mirror on the wall told him he still had a nimbus, which could only make things worse. He was defenseless, yet any other Speaker would see him as a threat.

Closing the commode lid, he stalked across to the window and opened the shutter, confident that the sill was high enough to defend him against charges of indecent exposure. He was three stories up, looking out at a gray, drizzly day and what had once been a garden but was now a building site, a wasteland of rubble, stone blocks, and timbers. At least a hundred laborers were hard at work on a scaffolded monster that looked as if it might grow up to become a church. Beyond that … Just as he had recognized Castle Gallant when Anton showed him a lithograph of it, so he knew Castello San Angelo looming over the rooftops. And the very long building with the pointed bell tower out front looked much like drawings of St. Peter’s. So he was in Rome, and it was raining.

Chilled, he went to inspect the clothes. The only item that he recognized was the Magnus dagger, neatly laid on top. The undergarments were linen, but as soft as silk, clean and almost certainly brand new, finer than any he had ever worn. Those he could manage, but the trunk hose had one blue leg and one mulberry. Worries about being in the grip of the Inquisition faded even more, unless it had taken to torturing its victims by ridicule—he could not begin to imagine what Vlad would say if he ever saw a Magnus wearing anything like this. Still, it was a perfect fit and of much better quality than any garment he had ever owned.
Never look a gift hose in the mouth.
The shirt was at least white, and of equal fineness. He had barely started lacing the two together when there came a tap on the door. Whoever was spying on him didn’t mind his knowing it.

When in Rome …
“Intraˉ!”

An elderly manservant entered, carrying a steaming ewer, which he laid on the chest beside the empty washbasin. He smiled politely and turned on his heel.

Wulf said, “Wait!” unable to find the Latin equivalent soon enough.

He got another smile but that was all. The door closed. Although no bolt clicked, Wulf would bet there was a troop of pikemen out there.

Hot water, razor, soap, oil, comb. A steaming hot bath would have been better, but one can’t have everything. Feeling much refreshed and readier to face the world, he returned to dealing with the appalling apparel. The next garment was a thigh-length doublet of forest green with the forearms slit to show the shirt underneath, and over that went a heavier, fur-lined, pleated coat of mulberry to match his left leg. Its sleeves were slit to the elbow, so the lower halves just dangled. Saints preserve!

The floppy liripipe hat was blue and hung down to his shoulder. The left shoulder, he decided, trying to adjust it in the tiny mirror. This was not Jorgarian wilderness; this was Rome, the center of the world, but if Madlenka saw him dolled up as a clown like this, her love would be greatly tested.

He was still adjusting his liripipe when the same servant brought in a tray, whose mingled odors caught Wulf’s attention like honey caught ants. He pulled over the stool and set to work on fish, pasta, eggs, and fresh figs. Meanwhile the man attended to the wash water and the commode, even making the bed. And then he departed, having spoken not a word.

People suspected of heresy could be shut up in dark stone boxes on dry straw for thirty years before the Inquisition even thought to interrogate them, and might never hear the charges against them. So this was not the Inquisition, not yet anyway. If Wulf had to guess the name of his host, he would bet on Sybilla’s father, the shadowy Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville. Whoever he was, he would want to cajole Wulf into accepting a new cadger. And if being nice didn’t work, he would have other methods to try.

He ate, and the empty dishes remained uncollected. The next hour or so felt like a good part of that thirty year sentence. Bells clanged from a score of campaniles, but he had no idea which canonical hour they were calling, for the clouds hid the sun. He addressed a few appropriate prayers to the crucifix. Eventually he did try the door, but merely confirmed that it was locked.

He had been a total fool last night! He could remember Father’s frequent warnings of the need for adequate sleep. Fatigue was not restricted to sissies, he would insist. One of his favorite stories had been of a commander who had led his army on four ten-hour days of forced march, and marched every pace with them to prove how tough he was. When the enemy sprang the ambush, the men were still alert enough to fight, but their leader was too exhausted to exhaustethink.

Wulf had let himself get into that state last night. Exhaustion and pride. He had behaved as if the Wends’ destruction had really been his doing and not a divine miracle. He had grossly insulted his future king and spurned Lady Umbral, who had been willing to put him under her protection. Choosing Madlenka as his cadger had been a triumph of lovesick folly over common sense, for she could not provide the guidance that an experienced cadger could give him. That had been another of his crazy impulses, like shooting Father Azuolas. Worse, because he had put the woman he loved into terrible danger. Now she held the only key to his powers, so his enemies could torture her to make him do their bidding. Fool! Idiot! Moron! Cretin! Dolt!

The next hour felt even longer.

It was interesting, though, how his strike against the Wends had changed everything. Before it he had been a murderer, despised even by Great-aunt Justina, and after a heroic warrior. Modesty aside—no Magnus was ever much hampered by modesty—he had done remarkably well. The Speakers he had met so far had been an unimpressive collection. Justina might have been good in her time, but young Leonas was an imbecile, Father Vilhelmas and his brancher, Alojz Zauber, were unscrupulous. Inquisitor Azuolas and Brother Lodnicka had bungled their attempt to return Marek to the monastery at Koupel. Sybilla was a flighty, immature girl completely bedazzled by her own importance and her destiny as the king of France’s sister’s hireling.

But what of Marquessa Darina? Yes, she was probably competent, in a cold-blooded, mercenary way. Dangerous, certainly. And a liar. She denied being a leading performer in Konrad’s notorious orgies. She had given no credible explanation for sweeping Wulf off to the palace last night and letting him spy on the dying king. Or for contriving his meeting with dear Cabbage Head. What was she up to?

Even last night, deadened by fatigue, Wulf had suspected that there must be a conspiracy afoot, dirty work directed at the younger Konrad; as his imprisonment dragged on into the afternoon, he became more and more convinced of it. Zdenek would be at the heart of it, just because he was at the heart of everything. He was certainly the main axle of the government, but there had to be wheels as well: jurists, financiers, generals, ministers of this and that. Cardinal and prince were reputed to detest each other. On whose side was the royal mistress? Had the Scarlet Spider been behind that strange visit to Cardice and the even stranger encounter between Wulf and the prince?

None of which should concern a penniless workaday esquire trapped in a locked room a thousand miles away.

But if he wasn’t somehow important, why was he here?

CHAPTER
34

Wulf’s ordeal was ended by a polite tap on the door. The visitor was the same dumpy little priest who had brought him to Rome—the same black cassock, jeweled pectoral cross, and Speaker’s halo shining bright. And the same oily little smile.

“Good day to you, Wulfgang. You slept well?”

“I did, thank you, Father.” He could have slept on sharp rocks, but he would not sleep as well again until he received some answers. He was encouraged to note that the man had left the door open behind him.

“I apologize for leaving you here so long. Your host is a very busy man, as you can understand.” He was taunting.

“I do not know the name of my host, or yours. Or why I am here.”

Again the smile. “I am unimportant, but my name is Giulio. Come and meet His Eminence. He will be happy to answer all your questions.”

Maybe he would or maybe he wouldn’t, but he would be Guillaume Cardinal d’Estouteville without a doubt. Wulf nodded acceptance and followed his guide out to a simple, plain corridor, then down a narrow, plain, and quite steep staircase to a more majestic corridor, with paneled walls and tiled floor, and then down grander stairs. And eventually to a large, high chamber.

It was the room of a scholar, with books everywhere, covering two walls, stacked in corners, heaped among the litter of papers on a large table in the middle. Despite its size, it was cozy, with a fire crackling in a marble fireplace, thick Flemish carpet underfoot, a few battered fragments of classical statuary scattered around, and heavy velvet drapes hanging ready to hide the watery wintery afternoon that lurked beyond the mullioned windows. The man in the big chair by the fire was elderly, the hair around his red skullcap silver, and his scarlet robes buttoned up under his chin to hide his neck. His face had once been fleshy, even sensual, but now it sagged in pleats. His nose was long and prominent. He was a workaday, of course, not a Speaker. Speakers lurked in shadowy corners, not on thrones.

He extended an age-spotted hand to let Wulf kiss his ring. His smile was too mechanical to seem sincere. How well did those filmy eyes see?

“Wulfgang! I am honored to meet a man who has achieved so much in so little time. You almost restore our faith in youth. Rise, rise! Sit there, my son.” He indicated a chair as large and heavy as his own, on the far side of the fire. Beside it stood an inlaid table bearing a carafe and a goblet of cut crystal. “Help yourself to some wine, please. I cannot join you, I’m afraid, because my doctors regard all pleasures as unhealthy.” He shrugged. “Your glorious victory over the schismatics yesterday bears the stamp of a holy miracle.”

“Indeed it does, Your Eminence.” Wulf made himself comfortable and poured out one mouthful of wine. “No one knows that better than I. All I did was try to burn a wagon I thought carried gunpowder. Everything that followed was the Lord’s work.”

D’Estouteville nodded approval. The odor of hypocrisy grew stronger. “And now what? The Lord has granted you great powers, so to what purposes will you put them?”

Trap? “I have heard it said, Your Eminence, that powers such as you attrh as youibute to me are sent by the Father of Lies.” Wulf thought he had worded that rather well.

Evidently his host did also, for his next smile seemed more genuine. “I would not be entertaining you at my fireside if I believed so, my son.”

Wulf blurted, “Then they are sent by God?”

A penniless, juvenile esquire should be much more respectful to one of the senior figures in all Christendom. He should let the older man guide the conversation and not bark out impertinent questions like that. Yet d’Estouteville merely smiled that mechanical smile again.

“You are a healthy young man, Wulfgang, are you not?”

Wulf nodded, then remembered that the old man might not see well. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

“And a strong one?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you get your health and strength?”

“From God?”

The cardinal nodded. “You have flaxen hair. I am told you have golden eyes. Where did you get that coloring?”

“The hair from my father, Your Eminence. I never knew my mother. I am told I had an uncle with yellow eyes.”

“All these are gifts from God, and yet black sheep bear black lambs, white sheep white lambs. Talent runs in your family, does it not?”

“So they say.” Wulf thought of Whitetail, the canine companion of his childhood, and the time he and Anton had thought it humorous to lift him over the gate into the compound where the hound bitches were confined when they came into heat. Whitetail had enjoyed his visit much more than his human accomplices had enjoyed their subsequent beatings, but ever since then the Dobkov hunting pack had sported a high proportion of white tails.

He realized that the silence was aging. “But what
is
talent, Your Eminence?”

“It is just a talent, my son. Some people sing well, others have quick wits. Some have good looks, some are ugly. Gifts from God. Sometimes He seems capricious, but He has His own purposes that we cannot know. Your talent is an ability to make your wishes come true, that is all. Whatever you want, within limits, comes to pass. Like strength or beauty or any other talent at all, it is a gift from God that should be used to His glory and purpose. Yes, you can do the devil’s work if you wish, just as you can kill men with crossbows or seduce girls with good looks and a glib tongue, but you can also use all your attributes to serve Christ.”