Chapter 87
Erik stared at the desecrated Lady chapel. Grim. Silent. Pellmann had not run away after all, as his remains testified. But it was the bells that were the most offensive. Made from infant skulls, with a small thighbone for a clapper. The cross was broken. The walls were scrawled with strange and unpleasant symbols . . . scrawled in what could only be blood and excrement. Rusty stains marred the once white altar cloth. Pieces of clothing . . . A cotte. A knitted cap. A richly embroidered nightshirt . . . lay on the floor.
But of the Woden-casket, which had been placed there, there was no sign.
“I think I am going to throw up,” said Manfred quietly. “Under our noses. Right under our very noses! Well, Sachs? What do you have to say to this?”
The abbot, defiant, furious, and threatening divine retribution until a bare minute ago, sank to his knees. “My God. My God! Forgive me.”
“He may. But I won’t,” said Manfred, grimly. “Where is it and where is she, Sachs?”
The former abbot looked into Manfred’s implacable eyes. Looked around at the desecrated chapel. “Sister Ursula, the casket, and an escort of knights left this late afternoon. There was a chance that the witches could . . .” He faltered. “That’s what she said. She said they would try to liberate it. That it would be safer with our friends on the mainland. My God, my God, I have been weak, misled by the carnal desires of the flesh! My God, forgive me.”
Erik hit him. “Enough time for self-pity and remorse later, you stinking swine. Where have they gone?”
Sachs whimpered. “I don’t know. She said something about forts to Aldanto.”
“The Polestine forts,” said Francesca.
Erik turned to Manfred. “She’s going to turn the Woden loose on the forts, presumably to clear the way for a fleet from Milan, which will be coming down the Po River.”
Sachs nodded wretchedly. “Sforza is coming. But we didn’t know . . . I thought—she said it was Christ’s work. . . .”
Manfred pointed at the chapel. “Well, now you see whose work it really was. What is this about Trieste?”
“A thousand two hundred of our knights, the Chapters from Greifswald, Landsberg, and Schniedemühl, are ready to embark to restore order and seize the Arsenal. They wait for our message.”
“So,” said Manfred, sardonically. “You stripped the northeastern frontier for this adventure. The Grand Duke of Lithuania must be very pleased with you. What do you think, Erik? Shall we turn them loose to make a demonstration on the border against Emeric of Hungary? That’ll keep him out of the mess, anyway, and them away from here.”
“Yes.” Erik nodded. “And we will need local guides. If we ride hard, we may get to the Woden-casket in time.”
Manfred nodded. “Francesca and Count Von Stemitz—with an escort of Knights—can ride for the Brenner pass to reassure Uncle Charles Fredrik that I am still alive. Now we’d better go and look for Petro Dorma.”
A knight ran in. “There is a huge party of Venetians disembarking outside. Looks like some mercenaries too. And cannon. Knight-Proctor Von Dusbad and Etten are readying defense.” He stared at the horror in the chapel . . . “What is this!”
“Sister God-damned Ursula, is what it is. Hell’s teeth! Let’s see if we can stop this. You—” Manfred pointed to one of the knights. “You see to it that the Servants are marched in here to see this abomination.” He pointed to the kneeling Sachs. “And take him and lock him away.”
“Open up in the name of the Holy Church and the Republic of Venice!” demanded someone outside.
“Let us out the wicket door. You can prepare a charge in case there is a problem.” Ducking, Manfred, Erik and several of the senior knights came out to face the Venetians.
Erik felt his heart lift to see Petro Dorma out there in the torchlight. Petro may have felt similar relief, but he didn’t let that show on his face or stop the mercenaries lining up the small cannon. All he said was “Where is Abbot Sachs?”