the castle staff crazy. And Father. Even Vlad and me.”
So the abrupt change of subject was a lead-in to a litany of Anton’s virtues and pending sainthood, was it? She thought she already knew quite as much about her husband as she ever needed to.
“We were all,” the baron said. “Or almost all, glad when he discovered puberty. At least that channeled his villainy along predictable lines. But Wulf…” Ottokar sighed.
It was not to be a lecture about Anton. She waited.
“Until he was about seven, Wulf was a bull; a small bull, but deadly. When he charged, you couldn’t stop him. You just had to get out of his way, although sometimes you could distract him by waving a red flag, or a honey cake, in his case.” Otto turned to peer up innocently at the bulk of the Hogback, rising almost vertically to the clouds above them.
“And after he reached seven? A little young for puberty, surely?”
“I’m not at all sure he’s reached puberty even yet.”
“I am.”
“Well, he’s growing up fast,” the baron told the sky. “After he reached seven, he was more like a bull dog than a bull. Once he got his teeth into something, there was never any way to get them out again.” Otto sighed and then smiled at her. “No way at all.”
So what was he hinting? Was this a warning or encouragement?
th=t="0em">
“We must all be very grateful to him for what he did today,” she said. “If he did it, I mean.”
“If he did it,” the baron agreed.
“And he cured Anton’s injuries on Tuesday.”
This time it was the baron who remained silent.
Was he hinting that Anton ought to step aside and let Wulf marry Madlenka, or was she just reading too much into an offer of friendship and perhaps support? Something, almost certainly this morning’s victory, had changed Otto’s attitude since last night, when he had plainly disapproved of Wulf’s intrusion into the Anton-Madlenka match.
“Gratitude becomes a man,” Madlenka said. “But it’s too late, isn’t it?” A handfasting was as binding as a marriage. “Would even gratitude help now?”
“I don’t know,” Otto said sadly. “I just don’t know.”
CHAPTER 8
Satisfied that there were no more casualties in need of transportation, Madlenka headed home along the wall walk, smiling to all the happy people she passed, listening to the laughter echoing up from the streets.
She was effectively alone! Since her handfasting three days ago, Anton had made sure that never happened—except for one precious moment last night, when she had exchanged a few words with Wulf. But otherwise she had always been escorted by her maids or Giedre or Noemi or Ivana or Mother or some combination. And now, just by chance, there was nobody watching over her. Except possibly Wulf? When she came to Fishermen’s Bartizan, the temptation was much too strong to resist. She turned aside and ran up the steps.
Because the curtain wall that enclosed both town and castle stood atop high cliffs, it could not be assaulted, and so had few watchtowers. Fishermen’s was about midway between the north gate and the keep, roughly at the northeast corner, and was so named because the drop below it was very nearly sheer. In theory you could lower a fishing line to the Ruzena River, although in practice the resident wind would never let it reach the water. When Petr and she had been young, they had tried dangling bait, in the hope of catching eagles. All they had accomplished was to get themselves thoroughly soiled with bird droppings and forbidden to go in there again—an edict they would conveniently forget in a month or so.
As always, the bartizan was deserted, just a small stone cage suspended from the lip of the wall. A drifting of snow hid the filth on the floor and the swallows had fled their nests in search of winter quarters. There was nowhere to sit, but she stood for a few minutes relishing her solitude. To the north she could see the mouth of the gorge. The Wends were
So the abrupt change of subject was a lead-in to a litany of Anton’s virtues and pending sainthood, was it? She thought she already knew quite as much about her husband as she ever needed to.
“We were all,” the baron said. “Or almost all, glad when he discovered puberty. At least that channeled his villainy along predictable lines. But Wulf…” Ottokar sighed.
It was not to be a lecture about Anton. She waited.
“Until he was about seven, Wulf was a bull; a small bull, but deadly. When he charged, you couldn’t stop him. You just had to get out of his way, although sometimes you could distract him by waving a red flag, or a honey cake, in his case.” Otto turned to peer up innocently at the bulk of the Hogback, rising almost vertically to the clouds above them.
“And after he reached seven? A little young for puberty, surely?”
“I’m not at all sure he’s reached puberty even yet.”
“I am.”
“Well, he’s growing up fast,” the baron told the sky. “After he reached seven, he was more like a bull dog than a bull. Once he got his teeth into something, there was never any way to get them out again.” Otto sighed and then smiled at her. “No way at all.”
So what was he hinting? Was this a warning or encouragement?
th=t="0em">
“We must all be very grateful to him for what he did today,” she said. “If he did it, I mean.”
“If he did it,” the baron agreed.
“And he cured Anton’s injuries on Tuesday.”
This time it was the baron who remained silent.
Was he hinting that Anton ought to step aside and let Wulf marry Madlenka, or was she just reading too much into an offer of friendship and perhaps support? Something, almost certainly this morning’s victory, had changed Otto’s attitude since last night, when he had plainly disapproved of Wulf’s intrusion into the Anton-Madlenka match.
“Gratitude becomes a man,” Madlenka said. “But it’s too late, isn’t it?” A handfasting was as binding as a marriage. “Would even gratitude help now?”
“I don’t know,” Otto said sadly. “I just don’t know.”
CHAPTER 8
Satisfied that there were no more casualties in need of transportation, Madlenka headed home along the wall walk, smiling to all the happy people she passed, listening to the laughter echoing up from the streets.
She was effectively alone! Since her handfasting three days ago, Anton had made sure that never happened—except for one precious moment last night, when she had exchanged a few words with Wulf. But otherwise she had always been escorted by her maids or Giedre or Noemi or Ivana or Mother or some combination. And now, just by chance, there was nobody watching over her. Except possibly Wulf? When she came to Fishermen’s Bartizan, the temptation was much too strong to resist. She turned aside and ran up the steps.
Because the curtain wall that enclosed both town and castle stood atop high cliffs, it could not be assaulted, and so had few watchtowers. Fishermen’s was about midway between the north gate and the keep, roughly at the northeast corner, and was so named because the drop below it was very nearly sheer. In theory you could lower a fishing line to the Ruzena River, although in practice the resident wind would never let it reach the water. When Petr and she had been young, they had tried dangling bait, in the hope of catching eagles. All they had accomplished was to get themselves thoroughly soiled with bird droppings and forbidden to go in there again—an edict they would conveniently forget in a month or so.
As always, the bartizan was deserted, just a small stone cage suspended from the lip of the wall. A drifting of snow hid the filth on the floor and the swallows had fled their nests in search of winter quarters. There was nowhere to sit, but she stood for a few minutes relishing her solitude. To the north she could see the mouth of the gorge. The Wends were
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