Read A Mankind Witch for Free Online

Order, with this stiff-necked, petty, self-important ass in charge.

    Von Tiblaut goggled at him. Obviously no one had disobeyed him for many years. But perhaps something about the way the Icelander had spoken made him keep his peace, for now. However, his eyes were narrowed, thoughtful.

    He might have been even more thoughtful if he had realized that Mecklen, one of the quiet knights sent to accompany the prince, ranked as an Archimandrite proctor, and that three of the other ten were senior proctors, from Bohemia. They were traveling as mere ordinary knights, and to all appearances were a bodyguard for the nephew of the Holy Roman Emperor. On the ship from Copenhagen, Mecklen had explained matters to the prince. "While they concentrate on you, Ritter, they won't watch me. And the bishops of the order are also concerned about what happened in Venice and what appears to be happening in Sweden. They'd like matters seen to, firstly, because this threatens the order, and secondly, because the current situation seems to have aroused the wrath of the Emperor. We don't need any more of that sort of trouble."

    "I am authorized to act with both the Abbot-General's and the Emperor's authority," Manfred had said, in a deceptively mild tone.

    Mecklen had not been deceived. Nor had he been angered. "Indeed, and I am here to lend force to your actions within the Order, and if need be in the service of the Emperor. Unless we are needed, we shall simply be your personal guard, assigned by the Abbot-General. But we are here to report back to him."

    They rode onward into the hinterland, toward the rising forested hills of the Småland borderlands. In the distance you could see that the dryer ridgelines were spiky with pine, with the wetter valley land covered, by the color of it, with spruce. Looking around, Erik could see that the country here had once been thickly forested, too. Some of the fields were returning to scrubby birch and aspen patches. Still, the potential for an ambush of a heavily armored mounted column was limited here, on the largely open flatlands. True danger would start along with real afforestation. Without allowing his vigilance to drop, Erik gave more attention to the fields. He looked at the straggly remnants of a strip of pease. Compared to the stark, steep, unfertile beauty of his native Bokkefloi in Iceland, this land was a farmer's dream. But there was no mistaking that there was poverty in the wooden peasant huts. Something was wrong here. The farms closer to the coast had been far richer.

    Manfred had plainly noticed, too. "Are these Danish lands?" he asked.

    One of the knights shook his head. "No. These are the lands of Ritter Von Stelheim. He was a confrere knight in the chapter house at Lödöse. He bought the lands from the Order when he had finished his time."

    Manfred's heavy eyebrows lifted fractionally. "They're in poor heart for a place that is potentially so rich."

    "These Götar make useless serfs," said the knight, scathingly. "You have to beat one to death for every one you can get to work. And half of them run off over the border."

    Erik made no comment to this sally, except to raise his eyebrows slightly.

    The Breton prince shrugged as if it meant nothing to him. Indeed, it was only because Erik knew Manfred well that he could spot the tightening around his mouth. Erik kept his own tongue between his teeth . . . with difficulty. Things were very different in Celtic Brittany or in his own Iceland. Even in Swabia, the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, beating a serf to death would have had consequences. But the Knights drew the bulk of their numbers from the eastern frontier. Such conduct was not uncommon there, but there the differences east or west of the border were slight. If anything, you were worse off as a peasant in King Emeric's Hungary, than in either the Empire or the Grand Duchy of Lithuania.

    A little later Manfred asked casually, "And the lands nearer the coast. Don't they