Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [156]
Joachim came up behind Dietrich. “Is that the Jew?” he asked. “Why is he bound up like that? What does Manfred plan to do with him?”
He plans to kill him, Dietrich thought. He cannot hold the man, for the Duke was sending an escort to bring him to Vienna; nor can he give the man his liberty, for the Markgraf would punish him for sheltering Dietrich these past twelve years. Dietrich remembered what Max had once said about serving two masters. But an accident … Death would be more convenient for everyone.
Except Malachai, of course.
“Where are you going?” Joachim asked him.
“To save Manfred.”
HE FOUND the Herr on his high seat at the far end of the castle hall, beneath the Hochwald banner. As he entered, Dietrich heard the door to the bergfried slam closed and saw Manfred heave a troubled sigh.
“Mine Herr!” Dietrich cried. “You must free the Jew!”
Manfred, sitting with his chin upon his fist, looked up in surprise. “Free him!” He sat back against the chair. “You know what would follow?”
Dietrich clenched his fists by his side. “Ja. Doch. I know. But sin demands repentance, not further sin. A Jew is made in the image of God, no less than, than a Krenkl, and a remnant of them will one day be saved. God will accept Malachai for his faithfulness to the old dispensation, for His promise is from generation to generation. God made His people a covenant, and God does not foreswear Himself. Malachai sought our protection, and I swear what I swore at Rheinhausen that day when you found me: to no one who comes to me shall I allow harm. I swear it even should that vow place me between him and you.”
Manfred’s face went cold. “You touch on my honor. Do you love the flames so much that you would weep over the torchbearer?”
“He has good cause.”
Manfred grunted. “And you accept the penance that would follow?”
Old Rudolf Baden had been Markgraf during the uprising, but Friedrich might have inherited his father’s grudges along with his lands. The church courts would take Dietrich from the secular courts if he appealed; but that might only exchange noose for faggots. Yet, Carino had murdered his inquisitor, Peter of Verona, and ended his days in great saintliness in the priory of Forli—where the prior was Peter’s own brother. “I ask no indulgences,” he said.
Manfred lifted his gaze toward the corner of the chamber. “You heard what he said?”
“I heard.”
Dietrich spun about, and there to his left stood Malachai the Jew, only somewhat battered, and by his side, a disheveled Tarkhan ben Bek. Malachai approached Dietrich and looked him closely in the eyes. Dietrich flinched, but then accepted the scrutiny with meekness.
Finally, Malachai stepped away. “I was mistaken,” he said to Manfred. “This is not the same man.” Then he turned abruptly on his heel and strode for the door. “I will await the escort in Niederhochwald—and trust to my spells until then.”
Tarkhan followed him out, but stopped where Dietrich stood. “You lucky man,” he whispered. “You very lucky man, master never wrong.”
DIETRICH FOUND Max in the common room of the castle’s bergfried, where Theresia was sewing his cuts up. He looked up when Dietrich entered and gave him a grin.
“Your Jews were fortunate,” Max said. “Had we not pursued, they were dead men, and the women worse. The outlaws fell upon them two leagues past the Lesser Wood, where the Oberreid road passes through that narrow defile in the Dark Woods. A good place for ambush. I had marked it myself. Is that wine, woman? Wine’s for drinking, not for wounds!” He grabbed the cup from her and gulped a swallow.
“Pfaugh!” He spat it on the ground. “That’s vinegar wine!”
“Your pardon, soldier,” Theresia said, “but I understand the practice is recommended by the Pope’s physicians and the Italian doctors.”
“Italians use poison,” Max