The old man thrust his long hand into a heap of stuff behind him with a wry face. With a nasty gnash he extracted a cuirass to which there were fixed by clasps disproportionately big spaulders with crests.

“Presses on my side,” he explained, though nobody asked him a thing. “I do understand you, Jendrich. If you were tempted by this quite unassuming armour, what to say about that of the Maintz heir... For all that, you’re a robber, don’t take this for rudeness. It just didn’t occur to you that you had insulted Siegfried deadly. Formally it isn’t forbidden by tournament rules. But... The future margrave hasn’t forgiven you his public shame. Or rather, hasn’t forgiven it to the knight Lubina Rava, the commander of the prince of Opolie. I’m very sorry, Jendrich. No, I’m really sorry. You have almost made it...”

Distressing silence set in the cellar.

“Damn, but I’m!.. I...” Jendrich turned away gloomily, hiding his face.

It was heard how in the tavern above the Maintz men were bawling a song.

“Well, I think it’s my turn now,” the dependant made himself smile. “There is another way. Would the old margrave live longer... The beloved son had certainly poisoned his father or had organized his assassination. But he who is warned is armed. Ah, my friends, what hasn’t old Giacomo Seingalt happened to be! If you only knew! But a margrave – never. It would be a sin not to use such an opportunity. I’m ready, Martzin. Should I clap my hands too?”

The bony, still strong fingers reached for the image of a king.

The image’s head was broken.

That morning Dietrich von Maintz woke up with the feeling of close death – a feeling as sharp as the assassin’s stiletto.

For the first time in seventeen years of calm and welfare.

I’ll be murdered today, thought Dietrich with a frightful clearness. I’ll be murdered today, destroyed, eliminated, and young Siegfried will receive the crown of the Maintz Mark. The heir will become margrave, while I’ll become dust. Nothing. A vague memory, a ghost of the past. I don’t want to die. Don’t want to. Maybe it’s all because of the dream. It was the dream that had awakened in his soul a presentiment of death. At night Dietrich von Maintz had seen events that he would prefer not to recall. To forget forever. And in any case, not to resurrect them at night.

The rout of Maintz by the troops of Vitold the Bastard, duke of Henning.

It happened long ago – the heir Siegfried was five years old then. This... actually, what did it matter – where, when and how? Quite enough that it had once happened. And for long years it disinclined him from coveting his neighbours’ lands. Tamed his pride, moderated greed and vanity.

At times the margrave felt grateful to the duke Vitold for the lesson. And now...

“You’ll be murdered,” whispered the secret guest that had settled in his soul without asking for permission. “Be careful, old man.”

I’ll be careful, vowed Dietrich, answering the call. I’m not an old man. I won’t be murdered.

While making his morning toilet, he was watching the servants attentively. No one can be trusted. No one. Washing himself in a silver tub – the margrave had always been cleanly – Dietrich broke an arm of a young maid servant who was pouring hot water from a jug. It seemed to him that the maid was hiding a dagger in the jug, preparing to strike him in the back. The victim was sobbing, rolling up her eyes; bodyguards that had rushed into the bedroom were exchanging perplexed glances, while the margrave himself was soothing his heart with difficulty. His body was yet going strong – the maid’s elbow had cracked as a spill in skilful fingers, – but his heart was too worn out for such outbursts.

No, I won’t be murdered.

He drove the bodyguards out. Out!!! Sapheads, duffers, unable to distinguish an assassination attempt from the ordinary lord’s wrath... Then, after some considering, he called for the captain of the guard and ordered him to replace the guardians. The captain, a smart man, didn’t show interest in the cause of the disfavour. He just asked: “With whom to replace?” “Can I trust him?!” thought Dietrich, looking at the captain’s face. “He seems to be loyal. He’s got knight spurs from my hands. He dreams of barony. Or is he already suborned?! Looks straight, without blinking. Black eyes... black eyes, those of a sorcerer!..” The margrave ordered to bring him the list of the Gold Griffon squad and poked randomly at five names. This is safer. Fortuity will prevent them from doing what they’ve planned.

Who are “they”?

He didn’t know.

You’ll be murdered today, old man. No, I won’t.

“Provide the maiden with dowry,” ordered the margrave without looking at the maid who had fainted away. “On the cost of my treasury. Send her my private doctor. Let him not leave her till tomorrow. And marry... Marry her off.”

The doctor – that’s right. Let him not leave her. And not approach me.

Doctors are the main danger.

His heart calmed down and was beating evenly and strongly. Pretended to be young.

At breakfast Dietrich demanded to bring the chief cook into the hall. Let him stand near the table and taste all the dishes served for the beloved lord. Truffles. Deer meat. Hare pâté. Fruits. Wine. Pheasants in honey. Quails. Fish. Bread. In the end of the breakfast the cook, ready to fall on the floor any minute, was driven away by his hands. The margrave himself, satisfied with a piece of fresh bread and a goblet of spring water, was waiting for a long time: was it poisoning? It turned out to be indigestion. The cook had overeaten. Pheasants with fruits, pâté, steamed pike-fish... a bit too heavy. His wife permitted herself a surprised smile, but having caught her husband’s severe glance she halted. The heir, young Siegfried, pretended nothing was amiss.

Heirs are the most dangerous.

I won’t be murdered.

Here and now – I won’t.

Dietrich refused to go hunting. And for half a day was cursing himself for it. Yes, during the hunt it’s easy to shoot in the back. Or a horse would slip, throwing a rider into a ravine. But in the castle it’s not harder to strike with a dagger from behind a curtain. He was sitting in his room gloomily, staring at the wall and repeating as a spell, as a prayer: “Won’t be murdered. Won’t be murdered. Won’t...”

Thin blood veins were protruding on his cheeks.

A lump in the throat.

Hard to breathe. I have to breathe. I’ll remain alive.

He was looking at the yard slabs from out the window, at the faraway garden where there were walking his wife and daughters. He wanted to join them. He wanted to go hunting. He wanted to throw away the suffocation of fear – but danger awaited him at every step. Hold on, old man! I’m not an old man!!! At least one day... Why one day?! I’m still going strong! You’ll die! I’ll live long!..

He came to the door and called in a loud voice: “Priest! Call for my confessor!” When father Jeronim had arrived – without opening the lock he ordered the guard to search the priest. Zealously, bastards! There were no arms found with the cleric, but the margrave, having let the confessor in, withdrew with his own hands a rope that the monk used to girdle himself with. A rope can be thrown upon your neck quietly. During a prayer. Look how thick it is! He’ll strangle a man without batting an eyelid, this hypocrite...

“I wish to confess, father!”

“That’s a good deed, my son...”

During the confession the confessor was nervous, glancing every now and then with fear at the excited margrave. Dietrich felt angry, stumbled over his words, trying, on the one hand, to prepare himself for possible death, cleansing his soul by confession, and on the other – to look after the most suspicious priest; and eventually he kicked father Jeronim out.

The day seemed endless. Devils were knocking in the left temple, turning the world scarlet as Hell’s flame. To sign an abdication in his son’s favour? To save himself? Or is it just an illusory shield, ready to crack at the first push?! Live! I want to live!.. Every rustle in a corridor threatened to be an assault.