The sand was flowing the other way around!
Lukerda gasped and closed her mouth with her palm.
Together with the crazy sand Time itself was turning back, returning on its circuits, casting away generously once gathered stones, giving the possibility to step twice in the same river – to improve, to change, to play again... The last grain of sand dived into the narrow orifice. Time stopped, hanging like an axe over a victim’s neck – and Martzin raised his face, stiffened, pale as a wax mask. “Hurry on, chieftain!”
“Chieftain?!” grinned in response Jendrich Dry Storm. “Hell no! This time – a knight! Lubina Rava, the noble commander of the prince of Opolie! Hold on, Siegfried, you dog, I’m coming!”
The strong fingers, more used to the hilt of a sword, closed on the piece. The next moment the “Triple Nornscoll” disappeared. In its place a window was flung wide open, and one could see distinctly how...
...Clang, a thump on the ground. Enthusiastic cries of spectators. The spear of Siegfried, heir to the crown of Maintz, has unhorsed another rival. A good stroke. It seems that of the fighters that have dared to oppose the initiator remained two: Henric Labendz and himself, Lubina Rava. The rest are already beaten by the young bully. At first, though, Lubina wasn’t going to participate in the jousting. But to reject the invitation of the margrave Dietrich would have been an insult. And then again, the commander loved tournaments. Many were unhorsed by his strong hand, but rivals wouldn’t take offence at one another. Strong was the spirit of the knightly brotherhood, not as it is now...
“I’m getting old. I start grumbling. In our time, that is, the grass was greener, and the girls were prettier, and cows had four horns... Is your sun approaching the sunset, knight?! Come on! There's life in the old dog yet! And the boy is good, really good. Which means you must knock the stuffing out of this blockhead while you still can...”
“The knight Henric Labendz from Boleslavez!”
That’s it, he’s next. Lubina jumped slightly, checking the tourney armour, clenched and unclenched his fingers in the gauntlets. No, everything fitted well. A helm on the head, a spear and a shield in the hands – and he might go out to the field. What a pity that the joy had gone. He remembered sensation of holiday that had filled the tournaments of old. And here, in Maintz, everything seemed as it must be: banners, plumes, armours glittering in the sun, trumpets, heralds, ladies waving their handkerchiefs – yet the holiday was gone. Jealousy, envy... As if a cloud hung over the field, putting out smiles, penetrating souls with streams of darkness.
The commander knew the name of the cloud hanging over the Maintz Mark and threatening to shower its rain onto the neighbouring lands.
War was its name.
And its heart was the heart of young Siegfried.
Why was he so sure? The commander wondered at himself. Only yesterday the skies of the future had still shone with pure azure, and today Lubina was awake because of the sulphuric smell of trouble. In his time the margrave Dietrich von Maintz, Siegfried’s father, had been as belligerent and indomitable as his son was now. Not once and not twice had he tried to widen his borders, but at last, after he was beaten by the powerful duke of Henning, he calmed down. Became peaceful and hospitable. Only that Dietrich is old, and his heir longs for revenge. Clever enough to have learnt from his father’s bitter experience and not go west, to Henning, once again, Siegfried will move his troops east as soon as his hands are untied. Holne will fall quickly, only to whet his appetite; Opolie will stand for some more time. But without reliable allies the principality won’t withstand before powerful and rich Maintz. Making alliances requires time.
A secret guest that had settled inside Lubina was prompting: there was no time.
“A-a-ah!..”
Look at him! Henric Labendz proved to be strong – withheld the blow with his shield, remained in the saddle. Now the knights are departing for the next attack... Lubina felt in his bones: the tournament in Maintz would decide everything. Young Siegfried is trying his strength. When you are twenty two, your blood is up in your veins and your head is full of grandiose plans – victory in the tournament can be accepted for an omen from Heaven. And the flame of war will rage across the land, until the predator breaks his fangs fighting a stronger enemy.
So why not calm down the lad here and now?
“A-a-ah!..”
It’s over. Henric Labendz from Boleslavez is defeated.
Now it’s time.
“The knight Lubina Rava from Wrozlav!”
His hands are accepting the habitual weight of the shield and the spear brought by the squires. His eyes are looking at the world through the visor grid. While riding to the field pitted by hoofs, while listening to the welcoming roar of the crowd, the commander thought: “It’s not enough to simply unhorse the pup. It would be nice to send him to hell. Oh, how nice it would be...”
The thought flashed and disappeared. The weird, evil, foreign thought.
Trumpets.
The opposite tribunes rushed towards him in the usual way, in his ears sounded the victorious rumble of hoofs. But faster than the tribunes, in front of him there emerges a rider in glittering armour. On the azure field of his shield the griffon of Maintz claws a snake. Only a fool would fight a griffon face to face – above it, over the shield’s edge, aslant and up...
A stroke. Crash. For a moment everything goes dark before the commander’s eyes.
Hold on! Remain in the saddle at any cost!..
He made it. The horse stops obediently, turning around in its place. Here he is, Siegfried von Maintz – prostrate on the ground. The commander’s favourite stroke – a spear in a head – had reached its aim one more time. The boy is defeated. Alive or dead?
The lying knight is trying to grope for the hilt of his sword. That means he’s alive. All the same, from Lubina’s stroke he will not recover soon.
One of the tournament marshals runs up to him. His words are making their way through the hum of the tribunes: “Congratulations to the valiant knight on his victory! According to the tournament tradition the winner has the right for a trophy. What detail of the armour would the noble knight wish to take? The spur? The gauntlet? The belt?..”
Lubina Rava looks at Siegfried. Excellent armour. Gorgeous. A cuirass of Milanese steel – the “goose chest”! – a Burgonet helmet in the latest fashion, with a triple visor, lamellar armour surpasses leather one in flexibility. And gold all over: the image of the griffon, the decoration of the vambraces and the spaulders... At any fair such armour would cost oodles of money. While Rava’s lands don’t bring decent income, and the prince Razimir is a skinflint...
“A spur? A gauntlet?!” laughs Lubina with the foreign, stolen laughter. “Hell no! According to the ancient rules I take for myself all the armour of my rival! Order to deliver it into my tent!”
He pulls his helm off, grinning victoriously in the face of the bewildered marshal.
It’s over.
The boy has learnt a proper lesson.
“...victory! I beat him! There’ll be no war!”
“Jendrus! You’re a hero! Let me kiss you!”
“Lukerda, remember about decencies! I can’t allow...”
“No, he’s a hero! He’s a hero all the same! Only... why are we still sitting in this cellar?!”
“Because our most respected chieftain made a mistake. The real commander Rava would never do it.”
“Do what?”
Jendrich was blinking, dumbfounded, looking around him. He was still there, in the tournament field, looking at the defeated Siegfried, grinning in the marshal’s face...
Giacomo Seingalt’s voice sounded surprisingly simple; neither mocking nor the habitual old man’s sarcasm. Only sincere regret: “The knight Lubina would not set his eyes upon Siegfried’s personal armour. Of course, how would you know that the tradition of taking the armour of defeated rivals doesn’t actually exist for at least forty years? Now the winner is satisfied with only an honourable trophy. To act in a different way means humiliating a defeated rival in public...”
The old man thrust his long hand into a heap of stuff behind him with a wry face. With a nasty gnash he extracted a cuirass to which there were fixed by clasps disproportionately big spaulders with crests.
“Presses on my side,” he explained, though nobody asked him a thing. “I do understand you, Jendrich. If you were tempted by this quite unassuming armour, what to say about that of the Maintz heir... For all that, you’re a robber, don’t take this for rudeness. It just didn’t occur to you that you had insulted Siegfried deadly. Formally it isn’t forbidden by tournament rules. But... The future margrave hasn’t forgiven you his public shame. Or rather, hasn’t forgiven it to the knight Lubina Rava, the commander of the prince of Opolie. I’m very sorry, Jendrich. No, I’m really sorry. You have almost made it...”
Distressing silence set in the cellar.
“Damn, but I’m!.. I...” Jendrich turned away gloomily, hiding his face.
It was heard how in the tavern above the Maintz men were bawling a song.
“Well, I think it’s my turn now,” the dependant made himself smile. “There is another way. Would the old margrave live longer... The beloved son had certainly poisoned his father or had organized his assassination. But he who is warned is armed. Ah, my friends, what hasn’t old Giacomo Seingalt happened to be! If you only knew! But a margrave – never. It would be a sin not to use such an opportunity. I’m ready, Martzin. Should I clap my hands too?”
The bony, still strong fingers reached for the image of a king.
The image’s head was broken.
That morning Dietrich von Maintz woke up with the feeling of close death – a feeling as sharp as the assassin’s stiletto.
For the first time in seventeen years of calm and welfare.
I’ll be murdered today, thought Dietrich with a frightful clearness. I’ll be murdered today, destroyed, eliminated, and young Siegfried will receive the crown of the Maintz Mark. The heir will become margrave, while I’ll become dust. Nothing. A vague memory, a ghost of the past. I don’t want to die. Don’t want to. Maybe it’s all because of the dream. It was the dream that had awakened in his soul a presentiment of death. At night Dietrich von Maintz had seen events that he would prefer not to recall. To forget forever. And in any case, not to resurrect them at night.
The rout of Maintz by the troops of Vitold the Bastard, duke of Henning.
It happened long ago – the heir Siegfried was five years old then. This... actually, what did it matter – where, when and how? Quite enough that it had once happened. And for long years it disinclined him from coveting his neighbours’ lands. Tamed his pride, moderated greed and vanity.
At times the margrave felt grateful to the duke Vitold for the lesson. And now...
“You’ll be murdered,” whispered the secret guest that had settled in his soul without asking for permission. “Be careful, old man.”
I’ll be careful, vowed Dietrich, answering the call. I’m not an old man. I won’t be murdered.
While making his morning toilet, he was watching the servants attentively. No one can be trusted. No one. Washing himself in a silver tub – the margrave had always been cleanly – Dietrich broke an arm of a young maid servant who was pouring hot water from a jug. It seemed to him that the maid was hiding a dagger in the jug, preparing to strike him in the back. The victim was sobbing, rolling up her eyes; bodyguards that had rushed into the bedroom were exchanging perplexed glances, while the margrave himself was soothing his heart with difficulty. His body was yet going strong – the maid’s elbow had cracked as a spill in skilful fingers, – but his heart was too worn out for such outbursts.
No, I won’t be murdered.
He drove the bodyguards out. Out!!! Sapheads, duffers, unable to distinguish an assassination attempt from the ordinary lord’s wrath... Then, after some considering, he called for the captain of the guard and ordered him to replace the guardians. The captain, a smart man, didn’t show interest in the cause of the disfavour. He just asked: “With whom to replace?” “Can I trust him?!” thought Dietrich, looking at the captain’s face. “He seems to be loyal. He’s got knight spurs from my hands. He dreams of barony. Or is he already suborned?! Looks straight, without blinking. Black eyes... black eyes, those of a sorcerer!..” The margrave ordered to bring him the list of the Gold Griffon squad and poked randomly at five names. This is safer. Fortuity will prevent them from doing what they’ve planned.
Who are “they”?
He didn’t know.
You’ll be murdered today, old man. No, I won’t.
“Provide the maiden with dowry,” ordered the margrave without looking at the maid who had fainted away. “On the cost of my treasury. Send her my private doctor. Let him not leave her till tomorrow. And marry... Marry her off.”
The doctor – that’s right. Let him not leave her. And not approach me.
Doctors are the main danger.
His heart calmed down and was beating evenly and strongly. Pretended to be young.
At breakfast Dietrich demanded to bring the chief cook into the hall. Let him stand near the table and taste all the dishes served for the beloved lord. Truffles. Deer meat. Hare pâté. Fruits. Wine. Pheasants in honey. Quails. Fish. Bread. In the end of the breakfast the cook, ready to fall on the floor any minute, was driven away by his hands. The margrave himself, satisfied with a piece of fresh bread and a goblet of spring water, was waiting for a long time: was it poisoning? It turned out to be indigestion. The cook had overeaten. Pheasants with fruits, pâté, steamed pike-fish... a bit too heavy. His wife permitted herself a surprised smile, but having caught her husband’s severe glance she halted. The heir, young Siegfried, pretended nothing was amiss.
Heirs are the most dangerous.
I won’t be murdered.
Here and now – I won’t.
Dietrich refused to go hunting. And for half a day was cursing himself for it. Yes, during the hunt it’s easy to shoot in the back. Or a horse would slip, throwing a rider into a ravine. But in the castle it’s not harder to strike with a dagger from behind a curtain. He was sitting in his room gloomily, staring at the wall and repeating as a spell, as a prayer: “Won’t be murdered. Won’t be murdered. Won’t...”
Thin blood veins were protruding on his cheeks.
A lump in the throat.
Hard to breathe. I have to breathe. I’ll remain alive.
He was looking at the yard slabs from out the window, at the faraway garden where there were walking his wife and daughters. He wanted to join them. He wanted to go hunting. He wanted to throw away the suffocation of fear – but danger awaited him at every step. Hold on, old man! I’m not an old man!!! At least one day... Why one day?! I’m still going strong! You’ll die! I’ll live long!..
He came to the door and called in a loud voice: “Priest! Call for my confessor!” When father Jeronim had arrived – without opening the lock he ordered the guard to search the priest. Zealously, bastards! There were no arms found with the cleric, but the margrave, having let the confessor in, withdrew with his own hands a rope that the monk used to girdle himself with. A rope can be thrown upon your neck quietly. During a prayer. Look how thick it is! He’ll strangle a man without batting an eyelid, this hypocrite...
“I wish to confess, father!”
“That’s a good deed, my son...”
During the confession the confessor was nervous, glancing every now and then with fear at the excited margrave. Dietrich felt angry, stumbled over his words, trying, on the one hand, to prepare himself for possible death, cleansing his soul by confession, and on the other – to look after the most suspicious priest; and eventually he kicked father Jeronim out.
The day seemed endless. Devils were knocking in the left temple, turning the world scarlet as Hell’s flame. To sign an abdication in his son’s favour? To save himself? Or is it just an illusory shield, ready to crack at the first push?! Live! I want to live!.. Every rustle in a corridor threatened to be an assault.