Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights) (8 page)

Seraina could tell Sutter was lying by the way he
laughed. He was telling them what they wanted to hear. Thomas
seemed to sense it as well, for in a rare show of affection, he
reached over the table and put his hand on Sutter’s shoulder.

“Do what is best for your family. You will never
regret that,” Thomas said.

“What will you do?” Sutter asked.

As Seraina waited for Thomas’s response, bits of her
recent vision flashed through her mind.

“I have not given it much thought,” Thomas said,
leaning back slowly in his chair.

“You could come stay with us. We need an extra set
of hands around the inn.”

Thomas smiled, but there was more sadness about it
than joy. He looked around the kitchen.

“Thank you, Sutter. I would like that,” he said.
“But I think I had better ask Pirmin first. He was always rather
protective over this place.”

While Sutter chuckled at the joke, Seraina looked
into Thomas’s dark, almost black, eyes and trembled at what she
saw.

The Archbishop’s messenger walked his horse through
the gates of High-town just after midnight. A bank of clouds had
moved in an hour before, and the evening air was muggy. When the
rain finally broke loose, it came in the form of a mist so fine and
light he did not bother putting up the hood of his cloak.

He kept his horse to a walk as he passed through
Low-town. The sound of a cantering horse in the dead of night made
people nervous and was sure to draw attention. But once he had
navigated the maze of cobbled alleys and streets, and the last
group of houses lay behind him, the messenger dug his heels into
his horse’s side and urged her into a gallop.

The horse’s shod hooves hit the bridge over the
Salzach a minute later, and the sound echoed off the trees and
drowned out the noise of water rushing below. The rider did not let
up on the reins. Time was more important than stealth now. He knew
he was far enough out of the city that no one would hear.

But he was wrong.

After the end of the bridge the road banked to the
left and narrowed. With the cloud cover, and the drizzling rain, he
had no hope of seeing the black-dyed rope stretched taut in his
path. It caught him high in the chest and snapped his head back to
bounce off his horse’s flank. He rolled backward off his mount and
landed hard in the middle of the road. It took several moments
before he could breathe, never mind push himself up to his hands
and knees. His head cleared enough to realize what had happened and
he drew his sword at the same time as he staggered to his feet.

“Take your time,” a rough voice said. “Neither one
of us is in a hurry now.”

A man, huge as the night was dark, stood on the road
a few feet away. His sword was drawn, but rested point down in the
road. His hands were folded over one another on the hilt of, what
would be for most men, a two-handed sword.

The messenger pointed his blade at the figure. He
glanced around warily. Emboldened when he saw no others, he at last
found his voice.

“Who are you to waylay a messenger of the
Prince-Archbishop?”

“At this point, it no longer matters.”

The Archbishop’s man squinted his eyes and took a
step sideways. “I know you”, he said. “You are Leopold’s man. What
is the meaning of this?”

Klaus grunted, and lifted his sword. “You sound
plenty rested enough now,” he said.

The messenger’s eyes widened. “You would raise
swords against an official representative of a Prince of the
Empire?”

“No. I just mean to kill one.”

Klaus shuffled forward and aimed a slow thrust at
the man’s midsection. The messenger was surprised by the attack,
but he was light on his feet and managed to step back and block.
Klaus thrust again, another cumbersome stroke, and this time,
encouraged by his opponent’s lack of speed, the messenger countered
with a slash at Klaus’s throat.

Klaus’s sword came alive. It deflected the blow
downward and then Klaus whipped the flat of his blade against the
man’s leg and head so fast the pain registered in both places
simultaneously. He cried out and fell to one knee. Klaus grabbed
the wrist of the man’s sword-arm in one of his own massive hands,
and squeezed until the messenger’s fingers went numb and the blade
fell to the road. Klaus elbowed him in the face, and he fell over
with the criss-cross pattern of chainmail covering both eyes and a
freshly broken nose.

Klaus leaned over, took up the man’s sword and threw
it as far into the bush as he could. He sheathed his own weapon,
grabbed the messenger by his long hair, and dragged the
half-unconscious body into the woods. He slowed to pick up a shovel
leaning against a tree, and then continued with his prize deeper
into the black forest.

When he felt they were far enough from the road,
Klaus let go of the man. His head bounced off a root and he
groaned. Klaus kicked the messenger’s feet.

“Wake up,” he said.

Only a fool would throw a body into a river. They
have a tendency to bloat, rise up to the surface, bounce along on
currents, and eventually show up in a fisherman’s net, or get
mangled in some miller’s wheel. Careful men preferred holes. So
long as they were deep enough to keep the meat from prying wolves,
holes were always a better alternative than water.

Looking after Duke Leopold had made Klaus a careful
man. And sometimes, a lazy man. Digging holes was hard work, and
Klaus was no longer a young man.

Klaus kicked the messenger’s feet until his eyelids
flickered open. He threw the shovel on the ground and its sharp tip
broke the earth, spilling soil over his face. The man turned his
head and spit dirt from his mouth. His eyes were white with fear as
he looked up at the giant above him.

“Dig,” Klaus said.

***

The sound began as a
pitter
, like the first
few drops of rain hitting an oiled cloak. Rhythmic, almost
comforting, it did not penetrate far enough into Leopold’s sleep to
wake him. But the pitter grew into a thump, followed by two more,
and then a series of bangs. Finally, a frantic whisper cut through
the heavy door and reached Leopold’s ears.

“Dawn approaches, my lord. You said to wake you well
before. Do you hear me?”

The voice was coarse and gruff. Completely unsuited
to whispering.

Klaus! What time was it?

Leopold’s eyes snapped open. He threw back the heavy
down quilt and tried to stand, but his foot caught in the blanket.
He crashed onto the floor. His head ached and his tongue felt like
the wings of a giant moth. He cursed as he scrambled about on the
cold flagstones, thankful that he had had the foresight to sleep
fully clothed. He pushed himself up and swayed unsteadily until his
head cleared.

By the blood of Mary, I hate mornings.

The banging started anew.

“Stop it!” Leopold pulled open the door and Klaus
took a step back. “I am up. No need to wake the entire castle.”

“You said to wake you before first light. No matter
what,” Klaus said.

“Do I look like I am sleeping?”

“I have seen dead men look more awake,” Klaus said,
as Leopold scrubbed his face with the palm of one hand.

“You have somewhere to be,” Leopold said and slammed
the door shut.

Leopold watched the Archbishop from an alcove in the
keep’s outer wall. He was right on time for his morning ritual of
walking the entire length of his fortress wall. As the autumn sun
crested the surrounding peaks, it began to bathe parts of the city
in a warm glow. From this vantage point, the Archbishop could see
almost every single household in his city state.

Leopold rolled his eyes as the Archbishop stopped
and stared out over the wall. Seeing his lands and subjects spread
out before his feet like that must feed the man’s already bulging
sense of self-worth, he thought. He took a breath and stepped out
from his hiding spot.

“Salzburg has indeed flourished under your rule,”
Leopold said, strolling forward casually to join the
Archbishop.

He twisted his head at the sound of Leopold’s voice
and the bulk of his body followed later, as though they belonged to
different people. His eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked his
lips. Extreme annoyance twisted his features for only the briefest
of moments before it disappeared, but not before Leopold could
notice.

What is the matter, my Archbishop? Did I interrupt
your daily moment of solitude?

“I hope I am not intruding, Archbishop.”

“Of course not. You surprised me is all. I did not
take you for an early riser, Duke Leopold.”

Leopold put his elbows on the wall and gazed out
over the landscape. He let out a breath and the cool morning air
turned it to vapor.

“Oh, I do so enjoy a morning walk. It clears one’s
mind and presents previously unimagined possibilities.” Leopold’s
puffy eyes squinted against the brightness of dawn. “Salzburg truly
is a beautiful city. I must make the time to visit more often.”

“You are welcome here whenever you wish, Lord
Leopold. Your father was a great friend to me and it is my hope
that our friendship will live on in our own relations.”

You hated my father. Perhaps even as much as I
did.

“Why thank you. I do always enjoy the time we spend
together. And I apologize for not calling upon you the last time I
was in Salzburg.”

The archbishop blinked. “You were in the city
recently? I wish I had known.”

I am sure you do.

“I meant to come up to the castle, but my business
confined me to Low-town, and before I knew it, I had to leave again
for Habsburg. I am sure you understand. Men in positions such as
ours have so many demands placed upon our short time here on this
earth.”

“And some men’s lives are cut shorter than they
would like,” the Archbishop said.

Some live far too long.

Leopold laughed. “All men’s lives are shorter than
they would like. Young, or old, it does not matter.”

“I trust your business went well?”

Leopold stopped smiling and put on his best
disinterested look. “Business, archbishop?”

“In Low-town. You claimed you were there on some
sort of
mercantile
endeavor.” When he mentioned the merchant
class, the bishop’s face soured like he had drunk week-old
milk.

Leopold chuckled. “A slip of the tongue. I was
unclear. When I said business, I really meant nothing of the sort.
It was mercy that brought me to Salzburg that day. A weakness of
mine, some say. You see, I have a soft spot for widows. Especially
ones with children to care for.”

The archbishop said nothing. The skin at his neck
turned a mottled shade of red and gray.

Leopold patted his chest while he gazed out over the
wall at the city below.

“Ah, here it is.” He removed a cylindrical object
from a pocket beneath his vest. He carefully unwrapped it from a
short length of yellow silk and held it up for the Archbishop to
inspect.

“Have you seen one of these looking glasses?”

The Archbishop nodded. “I have. The church still
debates the godliness of these instruments. I must say, it saddens
me to see one in your hand.”

Leopold slid the looking glass open to its full
length. “It is only a matter of time before the Pope himself has
his very own.”

Leopold stepped near the wall and held the scope up
to one eye. He looked toward the snow-capped peaks in the distance
and then slowly lowered it until it passed over the Salzach River.
He scanned the three-story noble houses of Low-town until he found
what he was looking for.

“Very useful tool,” he said. “Oh, look. Is that…
why, yes it is! The red lion of Habsburg held by my very own flag
bearer. Incredible.”

He pulled the looking glass away from his eye and
held it out to the Archbishop.

“You really must see this.”

When the Archbishop made no move to take the scope
Leopold said, “Do not worry. This one was made in Strassburg, by
German craftsmen. It is not an original from the Mohammedans’ land.
No infidel hands have touched it, I assure you.”

The Archbishop took a half step back. “I would
rather—”

Leopold thrust out the looking glass and pressed it
against the Archbishop’s chest.

“I insist,” he said.

The Archbishop’s hands shook as he held the glass up
to his eye. For all his resistance to the idea of the instrument,
he seemed quite familiar with its use.

“Did you really think you could keep your whore and
her five children a secret?”

The Archbishop said nothing. He kept the glass
pressed against his eye.

What part of the scene below holds your attention
so? Is it the sight of my soldiers standing in your secret
mistress’s courtyard? The woman herself, kneeling, in tears? Or is
it her children being loaded into a carriage by armed Habsburg men?
These clerics can be so hard to read at times.

“How old was the whore when she bore your first
bastard? Eleven? Twelve, perhaps? Surely not thirteen. What a hag
she must have been.”

The Archbishop whirled on Leopold. He threw the
looking glass to the ground and the lenses shattered.

“She is no whore,” he said. A vein throbbed at his
temple and his skin flushed with rage.

Leopold took a step back and held up his hands. “No?
Well, perhaps I am wrong. Maybe we should ask the Pope to be the
judge of what she is or is not.”

The Archbishop’s face paled instantly. But to his
credit, his voice was steady and in control when he spoke.

“What is it that you want, Leopold?”

“Two thousand infantry, a thousand knights, and five
hundred gold. To provide for the upkeep of your men while in my
care.”

“Their upkeep would not cost half that,” the
Archbishop said.