Wolf's Cross (11 page)

He got unsteadily to his feet and stared at his hands, white and hairless, with impotent nails.

As weak as they seemed, it had been hands like this that had destroyed everything he had ever cared about. Hands like these could kill just as easily as tooth and claw.

He bent over the archer’s body and clumsily removed its clothes. The river had already diluted the blood, until all that was left were unremarkable stains on the already mottled brown tunic. He tossed the dead man’s possessions—belt, tunic, breeches, boots—up onto the shore, until the corpse was as naked as he was. After that, he pushed the body to the deep center of the river to let the current take it where it wished.

Darien watched it go and had the last twinge of doubt about what he would do next. He could return to the woods now …

But somewhere beyond these woods were more men—men who deserved to lose what he had lost. Feel what he had felt. Darien knew, now that the rage in him had awakened, that there would be no release from it except in a tide of human fear.

He dressed himself in a dead man’s clothes and started walking toward the world of men.

Anno Domini 1353

A
fter two days’ travel, Rycerz Telek Rydz herbu Bojcza and a trio of his best men rode into Warsaw. The city was imposing after their ride through the countryside. It could easily fit a dozen copies of Gród Narew within the embrace of its walls. As he entered the city, he thought that his uncle Bolesław would be relieved that no sign of war was abroad. The people did their business, men ran their shops, and farmers tended their fields. If they chose to glance at the approaching knight bearing the Bojcza standard, it was only with respect and mild curiosity, not the fear that tainted the common man’s face in wartime.

Telek was relieved as well. As tense as dealings with the Teutonic State were, the tension was preferable to open conflict. There had been plenty of that over the years, and Telek prayed that the latest treaty with the Polish Kingdom was to spell the end of it.

But it did add an additional level of urgency to his mission. For, if there was war, the presence of German hostages in Gród Narew would be troublesome, but unlikely to cause any great consequences for Masovia as a whole. In peace, however, the Germans became a much more delicate proposition. They
needed to move with extreme care lest they give the Order some pretext to resume hostilities.

For today, however, the land was at peace, the stores were full, and Telek’s party was greeted by the court of Siemowit III as honored guests. The Duke himself met all of them personally and insisted that they take their supper with him and his court. It was a grand affair, with musicians, and jugglers, and an entire boar roasted for them. But since their presence was unexpected, Telek was left to assume that this was how the Duke took most of his meals.

It wasn’t until late evening, when the Duke received him in private, that Telek was able to discuss the reason he was here.

The evening was clear and cool, and the Duke chose to talk to him outside, as they walked along the twilit gardens. “Tell me, my son, how fares your uncle?”

“He does well, my lord. He is, however, troubled by the German Order.”

“I fear that will be the case as long as his jaw aches to remind him of the last war.”

“I am afraid that this time he has more reason.”

The Duke stopped on the path before Telek, folding his arms behind him as he bent to examine a rosebush that was overwhelming the stony remnants of a prior wall. Nothing changed in his demeanor, other than his voice. “Tell me,” he said, his voice carrying an edge that hadn’t been present before. “What reason would that be?”

“He’s received a convent of knights of the German Order at Gród Narew—fresh from battle, given their dead and wounded. He had them disarmed, and they are now being held as our guests.”

“Hostages,” the Duke said. “What mischief were they up to within my duchy?”

“They refuse to speak of it.”

The Duke froze, and turned his head to look at Telek. Given the intensity of the Duke’s gaze, Telek was glad not to be the focus of his ire. “They refuse? Knights of the Teutonic Order shed blood upon my lands, retreat to one of my forts, and refuse to inform my deputy of their business here?”

“Yes.”

“Should I go to Marienwerder and demand satisfaction from the grand master himself? Must I have an audience with the pope?”

“My lord, their captain has told us that they will speak to a bishop.”

“A bishop? Which bishop?”

“They did not specify.”

“They did not … Am I to understand that they will speak to any bishop provided to them?”

“That is my uncle’s understanding.”

“I presume, then, that you have come here to fetch one for your uncle?”

“The name my uncle gave me—”

“Bishop Leszek, I would suspect.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

The Duke chuckled. “Our bishop served in the wars against the German Order before he entered into the priesthood. He had no love for those troublesome monks, and it would suit your uncle’s humor to grant his guests such an unsympathetic ear.” He turned to follow the path back to the castle, clapping a hand on Telek’s shoulder. “I must ask you to delay your return until I attend to matters here.”

Telek paused as the implication sank in. “My lord, you intend to return with us?”

“I have not seen your uncle in an age,” he said. “Also, should anything unfortunate happen, it would be best if it had my direct sanction.”

W
ojewoda Bolesław walked the short hallway between his private apartments and the guest rooms. The bells were ringing for the last rays of sunset as he stopped in front of the door to one of the most luxurious of the guest quarters. One on a par with his own.

Right now it housed his German guest, Komtur Heinrich of the Teutonic Knights. His tongue unconsciously probed the toothless side of his jaw as he looked down at the letter in his hand. He read it again and wondered at his own surprise.

He sucked in a breath and opened the door.

Brother Heinrich, wearing simple robes, was reading a book set on the desk before him. The German looked up, annoyance flickering briefly across his features. He closed the book as he stood, and the gesture was so casual that only Bolesław’s suspicious nature drew his attention to it. It appeared to be an illuminated manuscript that, given the vocation of his guest, anyone would quickly surmise was a book of hours, open to an evening devotional.

Of course, were that the case, there would be no cause to hide it from Bolesław’s eyes. Unfortunately, those eyes were too weak with age to interpret a single word, or even the language it was written in.

The illustration, however, had been clear. If the scene he’d glimpsed was in the Bible, it was in no verse that Bolesław was familiar with. An elaborately painted miniature showed a knight holding something at bay with a drawn sword. Bolesław had caught too brief a glimpse of the thing threatening the knight to catch its full form, but it was clearly not human, nor any animal Bolesław knew.

“How might I serve you, my lord?” Heinrich asked.

“I might suggest that you reconsider telling me what brings you to Masovia.”

Heinrich sighed. “I hoped I had been clear. Our vows prevent us from—”

Bolesław waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “Yes, yes. You need your bishop.” He held up the letter in his hand, which bore seals from his nephew and the Duke. “I came to tell you that a messenger brought us word that your bishop shall be here in a matter of days.”

Bolesław hoped for some reaction other than passive acceptance, but Heinrich did not provide it. “That is good news.”

“So you say. I might mention that the Duke himself has taken an interest in you and your men.”

Again, only infuriating calm showed on Heinrich’s face. “I would expect so.”

“He will be accompanying my nephew and the bishop back from Warsaw.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you will talk to him?”

“With the bishop’s leave.”

Bolesław laughed. “Well, I am certain that Bishop Leszek will grant you that.”

Heinrich frowned slightly, his only concession to emotion. “My lord, you have been nothing less than fair and generous with me and my men. Your tolerance speaks well of you and of Masovia. And I will say as much before God and the pope.” He turned around and slammed his fist into the desk with such sudden violence that his book jumped and Bolesław took a step back. “Do
not
think I am being willful! I am quite aware of the implications of our presence here, and this is
not
a matter we take lightly.”

“I had no such thoughts, Brother Heinrich.”

“We have all made pledges to God and the pope.” He looked over his shoulder at Bolesław. “And believe me, that is a much graver matter than you have given credit for.”

“As I said, you will have your bishop, Brother Heinrich.”

“And, God willing, you will have your explanations.” He walked over to the other side of the desk and placed his hand on the book. “Forgive my anger. I find myself preoccupied with the state of my men. Are they well?”

“The injured are recovering. I can have one of my men escort you to see them.”

“That would be good.”

Bolesław looked at the monk’s hand on the book and said, “But I see I was interrupting you. I’ll leave you to your devotions now.”

“Thank you,” Heinrich said. His demeanor was calm, but Bolesław saw his knuckles whiten as his hand pressed the leather cover.

There’s something there
, Bolesław thought.
Something that might be profitable to know
.

As he left, he thought about his nephew, wishing he were back already. Not only so he would have Bishop Leszek to slice through this knot of Teutonic recalcitrance, but because Rycerz Telek was the only man in his retinue schooled enough to read both German and Latin—the two languages most likely to be found in Brother Heinrich’s little tome.

M
aria hesitated, until the first rays of dawn, to return to Gród Narew. She didn’t want to face the path in the darkness so soon after last night. What scared her more than meeting Darien again in the dark was the idea of what she might be persuaded to do—things the night invited that she couldn’t even bear to contemplate under the light of the sun.

Avoiding Darien, however, meant she would almost certainly arrive at the fortress as Lukasz was tending to his duties, and facing him again was inconceivable. So she hurried along at a run, not even sparing a breath to sing to herself, racing against the sound of the tower bells—racing as if Lukasz or the Devil himself chased her onward.

But the bells rang out while she was still in the woods, and as she emerged before Gród Narew, she saw the horses being led out to the pasture. Her heart sank as she ran up to the gate, all the time gripping her cross and praying that she would not face Lukasz today.

Today, God favored her. Lukasz did not leap over the stone pasture wall for her. She reached the gate, disbelieving, and looked out over the pasture.
Am I mad, searching for him?

“Looking for someone?” one of the guards at the gate chuckled.

She turned around and said, “N-no.”

The guard peered at her from under a dull conical helmet, and over whiskers as full and wild as a rabid badger. “Looking for the stableboy you talk to, aren’t you?”

“No,” she snapped, suddenly feeling waves of revulsion that this man might actually think she wanted to talk to Lukasz.

A laugh emerged from somewhere under the bush of his mustache. “That is good, young miss, since you shan’t find him.”

Maria was about to walk by, but something—a dreadful worry—made her stop and ask, “Why do you say that?”

“Because Master Lukasz was ejected from his household, and I doubt they will accept him back.”

“What happened?”

The guard chuckled. “I thought you weren’t looking for him?”

Maria sighed. “Sir, would you be kind enough to tell me what happened?”

“Well, since you ask so sweetly, your friend Lukasz partook of much more ale than was wise, and compounded his lack of wisdom by convincing himself of how unjust was the Wojewoda’s decision to relocate him to a common room away from his normal quarters by the stables. So, in a haze of drunken inventiveness, he took it upon himself to evict one of our wounded German guests from his old rooms.”

“Christ have mercy,” Maria whispered. “Did he hurt anyone?”

The guard chuckled more and said, “He should thank Christ
he
wasn’t hurt. The German, however badly wounded he was, was more than a match for a drunk stableboy. Tale has it that his master, three stableboys, the German captain, and the Wojewoda Bolesław himself converged on the room to find your Lukasz crying like a little girl, flat on his face, with a wounded monk riding his back as if he were an ass.”

Maria shook her head, disbelieving. She was still too close to
the memory of Lukasz jumping her in the forest to reconcile that threat with the pathetic clown in the guard’s story.

“Bolesław wanted a dozen lashes on the spot, but the German captain pled mercy for the drunkard. The Wojewoda gave the boy’s master leave to mete out a punishment.”