Arcanum

by Simon Morden

  He rolled away, and put some trees between him and the Teutons.

  “Torsten? Pull back. I’ve got them!”

  The arrow fire dropped away, but only when Büber reached the edge of the trees and the track that followed it did he stop.

  The boy emerged, his shoulder under the older bargee’s arm, dragging him forward. The man cried out as the boy sank to his knees to drop his load to the ground. There was a thick black arrow in his buttocks. Then Nadel showed himself, face slick with sweat but pale as a ghost. His fingers were bleeding with the constant effort of cocking and recocking his bow.

  “Peter? You crazy bastard.”

  Büber felt like he was on fire. Every nerve, every sinew was tight and ready. He was so alive, he hadn’t noticed the blood dribbling in a fat stream down his face and neck.

  He started to laugh with joy, with exhilaration and relief, and the others looked at him as if he were mad.

  11

  Gerhard was undecided. He customarily met his enemies in the throne room and his friends in his private chambers. He rarely met the men who worked for him anywhere, leaving the passing of orders to Trommler.

  But here was Büber, master of the hunt, having ridden all night from Simbach. He had news of the Teutons, and the breathless messenger had said that half the man’s face was obscured with blood.

  The sergeants’ quarters, then. Get him cleaned up and fed. Gerhard wrapped a cloak around himself and a servant opened the door for him. Trommler was already awake, up, and dressed.

  “Good morning, my lord,” he said, and gave a short bow.

  “Am I allowed to suggest it’s hardly morning?” Gerhard frowned at the greying sky outside.

  “You are, my lord, but the gods decree that it is morning all the same.”

  The prince didn’t often blaspheme against the Aesir, but he had to bite his tongue. Something told him that a day that started like this wasn’t going to get better by nightfall.

  In the sergeants’ mess, Büber was cursing at a woman who was trying to mop his wound with diluted wine. He was sitting on a stool, his hands clamped on his thighs; she was standing next to him with a bowl and a bloodied cloth.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she scolded.

  “Then stop scrubbing at it like it’s a stewpot, you old witch.” Büber turned and tried to grab the rag away from her. Then he saw the prince regarding him like a turd in the chamber pot. He batted the woman aside and stood unsteadily. “My lord.”

  Gerhard walked slowly over and reached out for Büber’s chin. He moved it left, then right.

  “Will you live?”

  “Yes … yes, my lord.”

  “Then sit down and let the goodwife get on with her duties, while you tell me what’s so important that my royal person is hauled from his bedchamber like a common labourer.” Gerhard kicked one of the bench seats out and sat opposite him.

  “Yes, my lord.” Büber blushed under his dried blood crust. “The Bavarians have lost control of the Teuton horsemen. One of the Earl of Simbach’s men told me that Leopold is broke, and since there was no coin to pay the soldiers, they went back to their homes. The Earl of Simbach has imposed a toll on the bridge to raise some cash locally, because everything he had went to paying the Teutons not to raze the town.”

  Gerhard’s face grew increasingly immobile until he looked like one of the old Roman statues. After a while, he motioned with his finger to Büber’s face.

  “What happened there?”

  “Me and Torsten Nadel were tracking the Teutons from the south bank of the Enn – they stopped to water the horses – when a barge came upstream. They attacked it, killed the bargemaster, and grappled the boat.” He chewed at his lip. “We got the crew off.”

  “At some personal risk, I see.” Gerhard was furious, but he’d show that later and in private.

  “It was … they didn’t care, my lord. Between us, me and Torsten put about six of them in the ground, and they just didn’t care. Like they were animals.”

  “Perhaps, Master Chamberlain, we should have dealt with them all while we had the opportunity.” Gerhard looked at his own pink-stained fingers. “And perhaps our brother Leopold has some questions to answer, too.”

  “Quite, my lord.” Trommler made a rumbling noise in his throat. “Shall I request the hexmasters’ pleasure?”

  “Among other things, yes. But that’s where we’ll start. I want every one of those barbarian Teutons dead by dusk tomorrow.” The prince’s hand strayed unconsciously to where his sword-hilt normally was, but not even princes wore swords in bed. “Now, huntmaster.”

  “My lord?”

  “Two things. You did well saving the crew of the barge. I have no doubt they’re grateful for their lives and that you were exceptionally brave. Well done.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “And if you’d died, and Nadel also, I’d have absolutely none of the information you’ve just told me. Which makes you an exceptionally brave idiot. If you think I need to know something urgently enough to ride from one side of Carinthia to the other without stopping, you do that first. Then, and only then, do you risk your neck on some stupid and most likely suicidal rescue. Have I made myself quite clear, huntmaster?”

  Büber swallowed. His Idun’s apple bobbed conspicuously. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Now get your face sewn up, eat something and get some sleep. I’ll be needing you sooner than you’d like.” Gerhard pulled a sour face and stood, with Büber struggling to follow suit.

  The prince waved him down again. “Come, Trommler. We have work to do.”

  “My lord,” said Trommler. “By your leave, huntmaster.”

  They left the sergeants’ quarters and headed back to the prince’s rooms.

  “What appointments do I have today?” Gerhard was striding purposefully, and Trommler, with his much shorter steps, struggled to keep up.

  “You were to meet with the council this morning to officially open the summer passes, and this afternoon you had promised my lady some hawking.”

  “Don’t we have giants?”

  “Yes, my lord. In both the Katschberg pass and the Enn valley.”

  “So doesn’t that stop me from officially opening the passes?”

  “No, my lord. Although it would be prudent to get rid of the giants before the first wagons attempt the journey.”

  “Events are running away from us, Trommler. I don’t like that. It smacks of complacency. Bavaria treats us like we’re a milk-cow, and the Teutons pretend they can act with impunity. Summon the hexmasters and have them meet me in the throne room in, say, two hours. Apprise them of the situation and have them make ready their battle-magic, however it is they do that. Tell the council, pressing affairs of state and so on, and I will see them another time. Apologise to my good lady wife, but the hawking will have to wait. Tell Reinhardt to assemble the guard, and send out messengers for the earls who live close enough to bring themselves and their squires. And baggage and attendants. And …” Gerhard tapped his lips and hesitated at his antechamber door, “…have my armour polished and sent to the throne room.”

  “The ceremonial armour, my lord?”

  “No, the genuine article. If Leopold is incapable of keeping order in his lands, it’s up to me to remind him how it’s done.” He leant against the door frame. “How long is it since a prince of Carinthia rode out to war?”

  “One hundred and fifty-six years, my lord.”

  “Long enough for memories to grow short. It’s time for a demonstration of power that should keep us at peace for the next century and a half. Even if we have to raze Simbach ourselves in the process.” Gerhard punched the dark wood carefully with his fist. “That would be a legacy to leave Felix.”

  Trommler bowed low. “My lord has spoken.”

  “I’m going to enjoy this, Trommler. I think the boy should come along, too. The Fop as well. It’s about time he saw how honest Germans fight.”

  “I shall inform them a
ccordingly of my lord’s wishes.” The chamberlain spoke the same phrase that he’d used to Büber. “By your leave, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. A busy morning.” Gerhard waved his hand, and Trommler bowed again before shuffling away.

  The prince closed the door behind him and stalked around his room, poking at this and that, unable to keep still for a moment. By contrast, the servant beside the door stood motionless, all but invisible. Finally, the prince noticed both his own blood-stained fingers and the servant standing there.

  “I need to wash. Then I need something to wear under armour.”

  The servant made ready with a bowl and water, a towel and a block of hard yellow soap. By the time Gerhard had finished scrubbing, suitable clothes had been laid out on the bed.

  There was a knock at the door, and it was answered.

  “My lady, the Princess Caroline.”

  Gerhard looked up, surprised. He was bare-chested, with only his breeks on. Not that he had anything to hide from his wife, but he had a softness about him that had come on like autumn. He’d once been as hard and supple as a mountain ash, so he regarded himself self-consciously. His wasn’t a warrior’s body any more.

  “Show her in, then wait outside.”

  The servant was replaced by the princess.

  “My lord?”

  “My lady.” She was very different from Emma.

  “Gerhard, what’s going on? Trommler’s been stalking the halls like the Norns since dawn.”

  The prince picked up his quilted shirt and held it across his pale chest. He couldn’t tell which was whiter. “The Teutons who were here the other day have attacked a barge downstream from Simbach.” He struggled into the shirt and, eventually, his head popped through the neck opening.

  “Can’t the Bavarians deal with them?”

  “Apparently not. They are, according to my man, so broke they can’t afford to muster a single century of spears.” He peered at the lacing of his collar, elbows and cuffs. This wasn’t something he was supposed to manage on his own. “I don’t know how that happened, or how I didn’t get to hear about it sooner. I’ll be having words with my brother Leopold – after I’ve cut every Teuton neck south of Bohemia.”

  Gerhard held out his arms, and the princess hurried to him, holding him tightly and pressing her head into the angle between his chin and neck. He’d only wanted her to help him with the ties, but this was unexpected: good, but unexpected nevertheless.

  He’d needed another wife after Emma’s death. A prince with a single heir was in a precarious position, as was his palatinate. So Caroline had been chosen from among the earls’ families, and quickly too. Affection had not been a condition laid on either party.

  He put his arms around her, and felt not a little confused.

  “My place is at the head of the column. Carinthians don’t start wars, but by the gods, they finish them.” He raised his head slightly to avoid breathing in the stray blonde hairs that had escaped from her plaits.

  Her fingers had found their way under his shirt. He shivered under her touch.

  “I know, Gerhard. I understand. My place is here, with the children.”

  “Good. That’s settled then. Hawking will resume when I return.” Gerhard remembered what he’d told Trommler. “Felix is coming with me.”

  He felt her body stiffen, and her fingertips faltered. “He’s still young, Gerhard.”

  “Twelve is old enough. And when he’s sitting on my throne, the people will think back to today when he rode out with his father and claimed a famous victory. They’ll respect him more than if he sat safe in a castle with his teachers. I’m taking Allegretti along too, so the boy’ll come to no harm.”

  “I …” she said. “I’ve become fond of him. He’s a good boy.” She resumed her stroking.

  “He is a prince’s son,” he said. Dark haired, dark eyed, like his Frankish mother, who was suspected of having something Hunnish in her ancestry. A marauding Hun, most likely.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Gerhard.”

  “And neither did I. Caroline, I appreciate your concern, but I do have a battle to win.”

  “I know that. Just that this is all very sudden.”

  Gerhard moved his hand from the back of her housecoat to her shoulders and prised her off. “It is, but only because we ignored the signs. Do you know when there’s a storm coming?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because you look at the sky and see it darken. You feel the wind turn and strengthen. There hasn’t been a storm for so long, we forgot to look up, that’s all. Now” – he held up his wrists – “tie me into this thing. Not so tight it cuts off the blood, but the cloth mustn’t bunch up under the plate.”

  She looked at the laces for a moment, then flattened the excess fabric against his forearm before looping the tie around and knotting it. “Like that?”

  “Like a shield maiden of old,” he said, and held up his other wrist.

  As she worked, he realised that her heavy damask housecoat had begun to open, and she was naked underneath. Her breasts were fuller, her belly rounder, her waist thicker and her thighs heavier than when he’d married her – but she’d been a fresh-faced daughter of Carinthia then. Three children in six years had turned her figure more motherly than girlish. Then again, he was six years older too, and his tastes had changed.

  Seemingly unaware, she lifted his arm and bent it slightly, gathering the loose material into a single flap before tying it off. “The other arm now, Gerhard.”

  Distracted by the increasing gap between the edges of her coat, he didn’t respond. She brushed against him as she swapped sides, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Something the matter, my prince?”

  “Weren’t the Ostara celebrations enough for you, my lady?”

  “Apparently not, my prince. Neither, it appears, were they enough for you.” She gave up any form of pretence and shrugged her coat off her shoulders. The heavy material fell away, hanging only from her arms which she straightened behind her to leave the garment as a puddle of red and gold on the floor. “A man going to war should have some idea of the welcome he’ll receive when he returns victorious.”

  Did Emma do this for him? Had she ever got over the fact she was simply a token in a political alliance between Carinthia and the Franks? Had she loved him before she died? Gerhard stared at the pale beauty standing in front of him, hands clasped at her back and slowly shifting her weight from the ball of one foot to the other.

  Had he actually found the right woman second time around?

  “I can’t take long,” he said.

  “I won’t take long,” she said.

  He nodded towards the bed, and she ran to it with indecent haste.

  12

  Almost everybody had assembled in the Great Hall by the time Gerhard arrived. Felix and his Italian teacher were at the foot of the dais, trading obscure Genoese insults along with each blow and block. Captain Reinhardt stood next to the armoury sergeant and watched the swordplay. The stable-master was deep in conversation with Trommler, and there were other servants: messengers, a herald, kitchen boys keeping the retinue supplied with bread and meat, enough men to carry the prince’s armour, and another to bear the sword of state.

  He ruled absolutely, and if he kept a room full of people waiting while he played hide the sausage with her highness, that was his prerogative. He jumped up onto the dais, and the conversation drained away before he reached the throne. He stood there for a moment, surveying the people below him, then sat down with a frown.

  “Lord Chamberlain? There is a notable absence.” He searched the room for a hint of a white robe: behind a pillar, perhaps, or skulking in the deep shadows. Or perhaps they were invisible, and only given away by a tremor in the air.

  Trommler came to the dais. “My lord, a message has been sent. It was the first thing I did, knowing their somewhat erratic timekeeping and their concept of haste.”

  “So …” Gerh
ard paused, giving any hexmaster present time to reveal themselves with a theatrical flourish. There was no sudden appearance, and his good mood – no, his very good mood – started to evaporate. “Where are the Order of the White Robe?”

  “They are not here yet, my lord.” Trommler turned and scanned the hall himself. “Ehrlichmann? Where’s Ehrlichmann?”

  Near the back of the crowd, a man with dusty boots held up his hand. “My lord?”

  “You went to the novices’ house?”

  “Straight away, my lord.”

  “And you delivered the message?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He scraped his boots on the stone floor. “Should I call again?”

  Trommler pursed his thin lips. “Yes, Ehrlichmann. I think you should.”

  He had gone before Trommler had finished speaking, leaving the chamberlain to make his open-handed apologies to Gerhard.

  “I’m displeased,” said the prince. “They take half – half, mark my words – of every single penny we collect in taxes to spend on gods knows what, and I ask for nothing in return except that they come when I call.” He unclenched his fist and gave a grunt of annoyance. “Perhaps our allies need reminding of their responsibilities as much as our enemies need reminding of Carinthian might. Bring me my armour. It might be they’ll grace me with their presence by the time I’m ready for war.”

  It was a show, but, without one of the principal players, it lacked meaning. Gerhard stood and posed his body as each piece of armour was strapped on. It was old, but it was functional. More to the point, it was enchanted. The metal itself was mostly for show, which made the whole suit light and easy to wear.

  The sword of state was buckled to his waist and his helmet presented to him.

  The Prince of Carinthia lowered himself slowly to his throne. Despite the armour’s manufacture, it still weighed more than he was used to wearing. His mood soured further. “Where are the hexmasters, Lord Chamberlain?”

  “They, they’re not here, my lord.” Trommler looked not just perplexed, but anxious. “My man hasn’t returned yet.” He glanced behind him in case Ehrlichmann had crept in without him seeing.