Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

“Repay sin by breeding more sin?”

He shrugged. “To fight Quman, I need soldiers.”

“To fight Quman,” began Wichman, enjoying himself in the drunken way of young men who think only of themselves, “I need—”

“You are young and stupid,” snapped Bayan, abruptly shoved to the end of his patience. “But you fight good. So in this season I need you. Otherwise I throw you out to the wolves.”

Wichman had a high-pitched, grating laugh. “If you need me so much, my lord prince,” he drawled, “then I’ll set my own price and expect it to be paid tenfold.” He gestured obscenely toward the watching servingwomen.

Bayan moved swiftly for a man just risen from his bed. He grabbed Wichman by his shift and held him hard. Wichman was a little taller, and certainly half Bayan’s age, but the Ungrian prince had righteous anger and true authority on his side; he’d commanded entire armies in the field and survived countless battles. It took a tough soldier to live as long as he had, and he knew it. So did Wichman.

“Never challenge me, boy,” Bayan said softly. “I rid myself of dogs when they piss on my feet. I know where to find the slave market, who always wants young men. I do not fear the anger of your mother.”

Wichman turned a rather interesting shade, something like spoiled bread dough. Any man might have said those words in a boasting way, but when Bayan said them, they burned.

“To the barracks.” Bayan released his grip on Wichman. Ungrian guards surrounded Wichman and his cronies.

“I cannot approve,” said Alberada. “These men should be punished, and banished.”

“I need them,” said Bayan. “And so do you and this your city.”

“It is in this way that war breeds evil, Prince Bayan, because both good and bad alike profit in evil ways and sow evil seeds and lapse into evil deeds, driven by desperation or what they call necessity.”

“To your words I have no answer, Your Holiness. I am only a man, not one of the saints.”

rds and servants appeared, some carrying torches, and a scuffle started. Half a dozen men went down before Prince Bayan came roaring in, furious at being rousted from his bed. Half a dozen Ungrian soldiers, the men who guarded him night and day, waded into the fray with gleeful curses. By the time the biscop arrived, flanked by stewards carrying handsome ceramic lamps, the battle lines had been drawn: the servingwomen huddled in the pallet, all chattering accusations so loudly that Hanna thought she would go deaf, the steward and servants off to one side, licking their wounds, and Lord Wichman and his pack of wormy dogs—a dozen scarred, cocky, brash young noblemen—standing defiantly by the smoldering hearth.

“Why am I disturbed?” Alberada held a lamp formed into the shape of a griffin. Flame licked from its tongue. At this moment, dignified and enraged, she did not look like a woman Hanna would care to fool with. “Have you the gall, Wichman, to rape my servingwomen in my own hall? Is this how you repay me for my hospitality?”

“I haven’t had a woman for days! These women were willing enough.” Wichman gestured toward the sleeping platform casually, and for an instant one of his companions looked ready to leap back in. “We can’t all be satisfied with sheep, like Eddo is.” His comrades snickered. “Anyway, they’re only common born. I wouldn’t touch your clerics.” This set off another round of snickering.

“You are still drunk, and as sensible as beasts.” Alberada’s stinging rebuke fell on insensible ears. One of Wichman’s companions was actually fondling his own crotch, quite overtaken by lust. The sight of his pumping hands made Hanna want to throw up. Meanwhile, various armed servants had hurried up behind the biscop. “Take them to the tower. They’ll bide there this night, for I won’t allow them to disturb the peace in my hall. In the morning, they will leave to return to Duchess Rotrudis. No doubt your mother will be more merciful than I, Wichman.”

At that moment, Hanna realized that Bayan had spotted her among the other women. He looked in that instant ready to leap in himself. He laughed, as at a joke only he understood, and began twisting the ends of his long mustache thoughtfully. He beckoned to Brother Breschius and spoke to him in a low voice.

“I pray you, Your Grace,” said Breschius. “Prince Bayan suggests that you punish Lord Wichman as you wish, after the war is over.”

Alberada’s glare was frosty. “In the meantime, how does Prince Bayan suggest I protect my servants from rape and molestation?”

Bayan regarded her quizzically. “Whores live in all city. These I will pay for of my own wealth.”

“Repay sin by breeding more sin?”

He shrugged. “To fight Quman, I need soldiers.”

“To fight Quman,” began Wichman, enjoying himself in the drunken way of young men who think only of themselves, “I need—”

“You are young and stupid,” snapped Bayan, abruptly shoved to the end of his patience. “But you fight good. So in this season I need you. Otherwise I throw you out to the wolves.”

Wichman had a high-pitched, grating laugh. “If you need me so much, my lord prince,” he drawled, “then I’ll set my own price and expect it to be paid tenfold.” He gestured obscenely toward the watching servingwomen.

Bayan moved swiftly for a man just risen from his bed. He grabbed Wichman by his shift and held him hard. Wichman was a little taller, and certainly half Bayan’s age, but the Ungrian prince had righteous anger and true authority on his side; he’d commanded entire armies in the field and survived countless battles. It took a tough soldier to live as long as he had, and he knew it. So did Wichman.

“Never challenge me, boy,” Bayan said softly. “I rid myself of dogs when they piss on my feet. I know where to find the slave market, who always wants young men. I do not fear the anger of your mother.”

Wichman turned a rather interesting shade, something like spoiled bread dough. Any man might have said those words in a boasting way, but when Bayan said them, they burned.

“To the barracks.” Bayan released his grip on Wichman. Ungrian guards surrounded Wichman and his cronies.