The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  “Woodworkers can also build a bridge upstream, where the river narrows. That will make our task easier. When spring comes, and they have finished the hall, let them work one day out of four on this task.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Out in the courtyard, a scouting party jogged into view. “Let them through.”

  His herald—one of his littermates—called them up.

  The captain among them—one of Hakonin’s sons—gave the report: they had ridden south and west following the winding course of the Temes River. One fortlet they had burned, three skirmishes fought with no men killed. There were two substantial towns, both fortified although, in truth, they could be taken with a sufficiently large force. Of the Alban queen they had seen no sign.

  Stronghand turned to his councillors. “Of the eight parties sent out, six have returned. None have found any trace of the queen. We await news from the north.”

  “We should strike now at the towns we can plunder,” said Vitningsey’s chief, called Dogkiller.

  “We should strike where our blows will have the most effect and not waste ourselves seeking treasure,” said Hakonin’s chief, called Flint.

  “These prisoners are a burden,” continued Dogkiller. “If we killed them, we would be free to seek farther afield for their queen and their riches. What do you say, Ironclaw?”

  “I say nothing,” said Isa’s chieftain. “I am still waiting to see whether Rikin’s son flies, or falls.”

  Jatharin’s chief remained silent, as he usually did.

  Stronghand nodded at Papa Otto, who had learned over time that his master preferred his counsel to his silence. “If you defeat the Alban queen, then you can become ruler in her stead. But as long as she or any of her lineage remain alive and free and allied with the tree sorcerers, the Alban people will fight behind her banner and for her heathen gods. Strike at their gods, and you will win Alba.”

  “Kill the Alban people, and there will be no one left to fight you,” said Dogkiller.

  Papa Otto shook his head. “Kill the Alban people and the land will become wasteland, worth less to you than the good crops farmers can grow to feed artisans and soldiers.”

  Stronghand rose, surveying the court he had gathered around him: councillors, RockChildren eager to gain glory and gold, human men willing to serve a better master than the one they had left behind, slaves, prisoners, and the doubters, like Ironclaw, who were waiting for him to falter so that they could wrest from him what he had so far gained.

  But even Ironclaw, who was wiser than most, did not fully understand Stronghand’s purpose and methods.

  “We will wait until we have heard from the north. Our forces will continue to sweep the countryside until all the land three days’ walk on every side of Hefenfelthe is under our control. Burn what you must, but build where you can. A burned house is not a strong house; it cannot hold off rain, storm, and wind. Let the priests of the circle god follow in your wake and walk among the Alban folk.”

  So it would be done. He sat, shaking his staff; it clacked softly, bells chiming, as he beckoned to his herald.

  “Bring the next group forward. Are there any farmers among them?”

  There were.

  Satisfied, he sent this starving and pathetic group back to their farms with seed corn and enough grain to last through winter and early spring. He dispensed justice while morning passed, the rain stopped, and the sky cleared, although the wind still cut wickedly into the hall, leaving the humans shivering. The carpenters would have much to repair.

  Recently more and more prisoners had fallen into his hands, not all unwillingly. It was easy enough to let rumor do its work for him and to allow Alban scouts sent from parties hiding in the woodlands to penetrate the lines of defense around Hefenfelthe and see for themselves the increasing activity in the city. To see their countryfolk hard at work, fed, and alive.

  2

  QUEEN’S Grave.

  The words had an ominous sound, but the rolling hills and countryside they walked through with their escort before and behind them seemed pretty enough to Ivar despite the winter chill.

  “Pretty enough for a graveyard,” said Ermanrich, observing the leafless orchard trees and the shriveled gardens of the most recent village they passed by. Folk came out of their houses to watch them pass, but said nothing. They whispered, gesturing to the banner that marked this party as Lady Sabella’s men-at-arms.

  “They don’t like us,” whispered Hathumod.

  “Or they don’t like Lady Sabella,” muttered Ivar. “Don’t despair.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” said Ermanrich.

  “Look,” said Sigfrid, pointing down the road. “That’s a palisade. It looks like a fort.”

  As they came closer to a prominent ridgeline, they saw where the log wall closed in a narrow valley’s mouth. A makeshift camp with barracks, tents, and a small number of cottages lay outside the palisade beside a stream. A few men loitered there, staring—soldiers by the look of them. A woman came to the door of one of the cottages, pulling a tunic on over her grimy shift, and grinned as they marched past.

  “Hey, there! Handsome!” It wasn’t clear whether she was talking to the prisoners or their escort. A man emerged beside her, slapped her on the bottom, and went out, whistling.

  “What’s this?” he called to his fellows. “A new crop of sparrows to clap into the cage? A brace of lads and a boy! That’ll put the cats in among the pigeons!” He whooped.

  A surly captain met them at the gates, herded them inside, and sent their escort packing without even offering them ale to wet their throats before setting off again into the chilly day on their way back to Autun.

  “We were ten days on the road!” protested young Erkanwulf, who’d been given charge of the expedition by Captain Ulric. “Can’t we at least spend the night and dry our clothes before heading back?”

  “Get!” snarled the captain. “No one’s allowed to bide here except those guards assigned to my command. That’s by order of Her Highness, Lady Sabella.”

  Erkanwulf scowled, glanced at the prisoners, and with a shrug of frustration ordered his men to depart.

  “That’s that, then,” said the captain, closing the gates so as to leave the four of them on one side and the captain and his guardsmen on the other.

  “Hey!” called Ivar from inside the palisade, where they’d been abandoned. “What about us?”

  The bar slammed into place. They were locked in. He turned. They stood at one end of a well-tended valley with several fields, a pasture dotted with sheep, an orchard, a stream, and a compound of buildings.

  “This is a very old convent, an early foundation,” said Sigfrid, studying the layout of the buildings. “Do you see? It’s laid out in the old style.”

  “What old style?” asked Ermanrich.

  “Before the reforms of St. Benedicta and the elaborate plans of the Brothers of St. Galle created a new ideal for the construction and layout of monastic foundations. Quedlinhame and Hertford were laid out in the new style. This isn’t. Perhaps this was a villa in the time of the old Dariyan Empire, refurbished as a convent. But I think it’s more likely the architect built it in imitation of Dariyan villas. Not all the details are right. See how the drains—”

  “Why would you build a villa to be a prison?” asked Hathumod.

  “Hush,” said Ivar.

  A very pretty girl approached them, eyeing them warily. “Who are you?” she demanded. “We got no message saying anyone was coming. What do you want?”

  Ivar stepped forward. “We’ve been sent here by Lady Sabella to join your convent.”

  “Have you?” She tossed her head; the movement made her scarf slip halfway back on her head. She had black curls so astonishingly lustrous that all three youths stared at them, then remembered that they were novices and she a holy nun, sworn to the service of God. She snorted, smiling at their discomfiture. Hathumod stared at her admiringly. “Come.”

  The main compound was built
as a square with an inner courtyard placed in the center. Guards stood watch at double doors, but the black-haired girl ignored them, opened one door, and ushered her charges into the suite of rooms beyond.

  “Your Grace! Biscop Constance!” She had a piercing voice and was not afraid to use it. “We have new sheep. Do you think they’re spies for the usurper?”

  A silver-haired woman sat at a writing desk, an older lady by the hunch of her shoulders and the color of her hair. Ivar looked around the chamber hoping to see the Biscop, whom he remembered well from the trial at Autun—young and glorious and handsome as befitted a daughter of the royal house. An elderly nun came into the room, stopped, and frowned.

  “Sister Bona!” said the nun, chiding the girl who had led them in. “You must ask permission before you come charging in here—”

  “Nay, let her be,” said the woman at the desk. Laboriously, favoring one shoulder and one leg, she turned. “Give me my staff, if you will.”

  Ivar gasped.

  Biscop Constance smiled wryly. She was still a handsome woman, vibrant with command, but she had aged thirty years. When she rose, when Bona leaped forward to help her, Ivar saw why. She could barely walk. She had sustained some kind of massive injuries, although he dared not ask how.

  “Sit, I pray you,” she said patiently to her visitors. Bona helped her to the biscop’s chair and Ivar, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, and Hathumod hastily knelt before her. She offered them her hand to kiss. They did so.

  “They’re spies!” insisted Bona.

  “Are they? I’m not so sure I think they are. Sabella has never been a subtle chess player. I remember you, Ivar. You are son of Count Harl out of the North Mark. You gave testimony at the trial of Hugh of Austra. I admired your foolhardiness and your passion for justice, although you by no means helped yourself that day. Indeed, as I recall, you vanished soon afterward and were presumed dead or lost or absconded together with Prince Ekkehard, my nephew.”

  He bowed his head in shame. “The last, Your Grace. It is nothing to boast about.”

  “Bona, bring wine and something to eat.”

  Bona flounced out but returned quickly with a tray. Half a dozen others arrived just as they had finishing telling the biscop their names and lineages. Constance chuckled to see her nuns crowd into the room.

  “You see, my friends, you are a nine days’ wonder. We live very quietly here at St. Asella’s.”

  “I thought this place was called Queen’s Grave,” said Ivar.

  “So it is. It was founded by the saintly queen Gertruda. She lived centuries ago. Her story is told in the chronicles of those times, that written by St. Gregoria of Tur. She was married against her wishes to a cruel king who was no proper Daisanite. In fact, he was a pagan or a heretic, as it suited him and his political needs of the moment. When he died, poisoned by a former wife, I think, Gertruda fled to this valley and founded the convent in honor of St. Asella.”

  “Who walled herself up alive,” said Sigfrid, nodding to show he understood the lesson.

  Constance smiled. “You have studied well, Brother Sigfrid. We need another scholar in our ranks, for my schola has grown thin this past year.” The pain never left her; that was clear enough. But she possessed a quiet determination that would not let pain or defeat break her. She had retained a sense of humor, a subdued appreciation of irony. “Queen Gertruda took vows as a nun to escape the marriage her grasping relatives wished to force her into. In her cunning she created a refuge for other women, and a very few men, who also sought to escape forced marriage and instead devote themselves to God.”

  “It’s too bad Baldwin didn’t know about this place,” muttered Ermanrich.

  Ivar frowned. Shame flared and turned to anger. “He did!”

  “Ah!” said Constance. “There’s a story there. Well, then. You have an audience, for we hear nothing and see nothing. That is the fate of those interred in Queen’s Grave—to be buried alive. We would like to find out what goes on in the world outside. Tell us your tale, I pray you.”

  3

  IN early spring, Alain stood knee-deep in muddy water, wielding a shovel. He and a dozen of his lay brothers drained a strip of marshland, extending the land and channeling away the standing water. The slap of watery earth tossed onto the margin made a soothing rhythm as the men alongside him sang.

  “Out into the four corners of the world

  walked the blessed ones.

  Sing again their stories.”

  The tales of the early saints made a good chorus for working, because the verses could be added to as long as the lay brothers could recall saints to sing about. The afternoon passed quickly.

  Rage and Sorrow waited farther up the slope as Alain bent, thrust the edge of his shovel into the muck, and cast mud and dripping tangles of vegetation onto the growing shoreline. The hounds usually dozed all afternoon while he worked, but now Rage, growling softly, rose to her feet and shifted her attention away from him, scenting the wind. Brother Iso was bundling reeds to hold the margin; he lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the sun as he squinted westward. It was unusually mild for this time of year, warm enough that they only needed to wear their cloaks at night.

  “Caught one!” shouted Brother Lallo, displaying a wriggling eel.

  The other men cheered, laughing as the eel slipped out of Lallo’s wet grasp and vanished with a plop into waters muddied by their digging.

  “S-s-smoke,” said Iso, pointing.

  A thread spun heavenward southwest above the span of skeletal forest whose branches had not yet leafed out in green.

  “Is it the monastery?” asked one of the brothers, frightened. “Is there a fire?”

  “Too far.” Lallo measured the thread of smoke, the trees, and the sky. “It must be from one of the steadings.”

  “D-d-do you think i-it’s bandits?” stammered Iso, because he had heard tales of bandits and foul magics all winter and often cried at night before sleeping, fearful of what his dreams and the dark hours might bring.

  Sorrow rose, too, and like Rage stared steadily westward. He barked once.

  Two brothers emerged from the trees and hurried around the verge of cultivated land, avoiding sinks where the mire of winter hadn’t yet been chased away by sun and heat. This past winter there had been little snow but too much rain. Fields of winter spelt and rye wrested years ago from the marshlands surrounding the monastic estate had to be dug out again to save the crops.

  “Brothers! Ah! There is Brother Alain! Father Ortulfus is asking for you, Brother. Pray come with me.”

  One stayed behind to take Alain’s place while he walked back to the monastery with the other, the hounds trotting behind.

  “What news, Egbert?”

  “Nothing good. You see that smoke? That’s from Farmer Hosed’s steading. One of their sheep was brought ’round here a few days past because of trouble with its lambs—”

  “I remember that.”

  “Yes. Now there’s rumor that he’s got murrain at the steading. What if our sheep caught it here?”

  Alain drew the Circle. “God pray they do not. Poor man!”

  “If it hasn’t already spread … God help us! We could lose all our livestock!”

  “Nay, Brother. Pray for the afflicted, but do not beg for trouble. You don’t know yet that his sheep are ill, nor that our livestock will become so.”

  Brother Egbert looked at him sidelong, then drew the Circle of Unity at his breast and mumbled a prayer under his breath. “Wise words, Brother. I will endeavor to accept God’s will.”

  Father Ortulfus awaited them beside the low fence that ringed the monastic buildings. Sheep and lambs grazed on lea land, and beyond their pasturage lay broken woodland where the forest had been cut back for firewood and timber. Prior Ratbold stood among the small herd of milk cows, checking their muzzles and hooves.

  “You have heard the news, Brother Alain?” asked Father Ortulfus.

  “I have, Father.”

  He nodded c
risply, not one to waste words. “You will accompany Prior Ratbold to the steading. If it is a murrain, the law must be obeyed. The farmer must pen all the animals in. When they’re dead, he must burn them, and after stake their heads up as a marker of the plague.”

  “Why send me, Father? I grew up on the shore. I know fishing better than sheepherding.”

  “Go with him,” said Ortulfus in a tone that discouraged argument. “Do what you can.”

  Ratbold returned, shaking his head. “The brown cow does have a limp, Father, but it’s too early to tell what’s caused it. It could be the mud, nothing more.” He brushed dirt off his hands as he acknowledged Alain. “No sense in waiting, Brother. Are you ready to go?”

  They set off with ale in a skin and a hank of bread and cheese for their supper so that they did not trespass upon the afflicted farmer’s troubled resources. It was an hour’s walk to the southernmost steading of those that had grown up in the shadow of the security offered by a monastery held under the king’s protection. All the farmers around here brought tithes to Father Ortulfus twice a year, salt, honey, chicks, firewood, and occasionally a child when too many mouths overburdened scant harvests. A portion of the grain they brought in to be ground at the mill was reserved for the monastery’s storehouse, set aside for lean years.

  Last summer’s harvest had sufficed, despite rumors of rot and drought ruining crops both south and west of Hersford’s lands. This spring the untimely heat dazzled. Flowers bloomed early; trees budded; green shoots poked up along the banks of sodden ditches. The road was all mud, so they walked on the verge, slogging through knee-high tansy and burgeoning thistles that Alain beat down with a staff to make an easier passage for the hounds and the prior. The slap of the stick came easily to him, rousing memories of skirmishes fought months or years ago.