Erkenbert looked across at Arno, the counselor of Gunther, sent along with Erkenbert into Rimbert’s archdiocese to watch, assist and report. They grinned at each other with the curious fellow-feeling that had grown between them, the small dark one and the tall fair one, each recognizing the other’s delight in efficiency, in the exercise of pure intelligence.
“The Archbishop will get his first hundred easily,” offered Erkenbert.
Before Arno could reply, another voice cut in. “He will only need ninety-nine now,” it said.
Deacon and priest stared up from their stools at the newcomer.
He was not a tall man, Erkenbert noted, ever sensitive on this point. But his shoulders were extraordinarily broad, made to seem even more so by a pinched, narrow waist like a girl’s. He was wearing a padded leather jacket such as horsemen wore under their mail. Erkenbert saw that extra strips had been sewn in to widen the upper body, neatly, but without any attempt to match colors. Beneath the jacket there seemed to be only a fustian tunic of the cheapest kind, and well-worn woolen breeches.
The eyes staring down were a bright, penetrating blue, the hair as fair as Arno’s, but sticking up like the bristles of a brush. He had seen dangerous faces, and crazy faces, Erkenbert reflected, remembering Ivar the Boneless. He could not remember ever seeing a harder one. It seemed to have been chiseled out of rock, the skin stretched taut over prominent bones. Set on a neck as thick as a bulldog’s, the head seemed almost small.
Erkenbert found his voice. “What do you mean?”
“Well, fellow, the archbishop wants one hundred, I make one, one less than one hundred—have you heard of the art of arithmetic?—that makes ninety-nine.”
Erkenbert flushed at the jibe. “I have heard of arithmetic. But you have not yet been selected. First we need to know your name, and your parents’ names, and many other things. And you would have to go before the Waffenmeister. In any case you are too late for today.”
He felt a hand laid on his arm, Arno speaking softly and carefully. “Colleague, you are correct, but I feel in this case we may make an exception. The young herra here is known to me, to us all. He is Bruno, son of Reginbald, the Count of the Marches. There can of course be no doubt as to his suitability on the score of ancestry.”
Erkenbert reached irritably for the parchment. “Very well. If we are to do this in proper form we must then proceed to the questions of wealth and the contributions the applicant can bring to the order.” He began to write. “The name is Bruno, the son of a count must naturally be Bruno of…?”
“Bruno von nowhere,” said the soft voice. Erkenbert felt his writing hand enclosed in a vast, irresistible grip, gentle but with metal cables stirring beneath it. “I am the Count’s third son, with no estate. I own nothing but my arms and armor and my good horse. But let me ask a few questions of you, little man with the paper. You speak teutsch well, but I can tell you are not one of us. I have heard nothing also of your noble family. I ask myself, who is this who has the right to say who shall and who shall not be a Ritter of a noble order? No offense, I hope.”
Arno cut in hastily. “The learned deacon is an Englishman, Bruno. He fought in the Pope’s army that was beaten and came to tell us the story. He saw also the deaths of the famous Vikings, Ivar Boneless and Ragnar of the Hairy Breeches. He has told us a great deal of value, and is heart and soul for our cause.”
The grip round Erkenbert’s hand released, the blond man stepped back, interest showing on his craggy face.
“Good,” he said, “good. I am prepared to accept an Englishman as a comrade. And there is one thing the little Englishman has said—take no offense, friend, each of us has his strengths—one thing that is true. I must certainly pass the Waffenmeister.” His voice rose to a shout. “Dankwart! Where are you, you old villain. Set me a test. No, do not trouble. I will set them myself.”