by Kate Elliott
“Lord Berthold! Are you come to feast with us? We have been out among the refugees, giving what aid we can. Poor souls! We will pray for their safety, and for the safety of my cousin, Father Ortulfus. Did you hear? He has been taken prisoner by the Eika!”
This news she imparted with no sign of fear or grief, but more as if it were a reward granted to him.
“No meal, although I thank you, Lady,” said Berthold with a rather shy smile. “We must depart in haste, I fear. I am come to take Berda away from you. We must ride out immediately.”
“It is night!” she exclaimed prettily. “You may lose your footing and stumble …” She looked at Ivar, and it was obvious she had thought he was someone else—Jonas, perhaps—because she stumbled over a word, gaped at him, while around her, her ladies began to whisper each to the other with the fierce blast of intrigue.
“Oh!” she said, seeing Baldwin. She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Still among the living!”
Baldwin smiled prettily, but his interest had fixed on the untouched bread set on the table. Berthold had already collected the stocky woman, and they vanished out the gate.
“We have to leave,” said Ivar, tugging on Baldwin’s elbow.
“Oh!” cried the young ladies, circling in for the kill.
“Will you take bread, at least?” cried Lady Beatrix. She hastened toward the table, and before Ivar had quite pulled Baldwin out of the garden, she offered them each a loaf with her own hands.
“Thank you!” said Baldwin, grabbing both.
Ivar slammed the gate shut. “We must hurry!”
Baldwin tucked one loaf under an arm and tore off a hank of the other. The bread’s insides had a cloudy, delicate look and a heavenly smell.
“This is good!” he said, and between mouthfuls, “horses might go lame … if keep riding … without new shoes.”
“If we’re captured here, we’ll have no chance to alert Lady Sabella, or even Prince Sanglant.”
Baldwin shrugged. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
“Come on!”
Berthold and his companion had already crossed the green. Ivar ran after him and into the orchard, ducking under branches and twice detouring around encampments of refugees. He did not catch up to the others until they reached the orchard gate, where Berthold had halted to wait for the rest of his party to gather.
“It might be best, Lord Berthold, if my companion and I travel with you. We both wish to avoid the Eika.”
“We seek the regnant,” said Berthold curtly. “I have no wish to be captured by Lady Sabella, who once raised that evil woman to be biscop.”
“Constance?”
“No! Antonia of Mainni.”
“I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“Skopos now, or so she claims. She rules over a nest of vipers! Sabella can’t be trusted if she once honored that awful woman! Ally to Hugh of Austra! A murderer! A foul maleficus!” Lord Berthold let loose such a tirade of filthy imprecations that Ivar blushed and looked away, and found himself staring at the stocky companion. She had the look of the Quman, but there was something indefinably different about her that Ivar could not identify. She wore a glittering headpiece, beads and gold sewn into a stiff, black fabric, and she had a strong jaw and broad cheekbones, big hands, and a stolid expression. She said nothing. It was not clear if she understand the flood of lurid curses, which did not cease until the rest of Berthold’s group came up to meet them.
Besides Lord Jonas and the Quman man, a slender cleric attended patiently, almost absently, pausing under the canopy of a walnut tree. All carried saddlebags slung awkwardly over their shoulders. The Quman soldier handed two saddlebags to the silent woman. Wolfhere strode up with Prior Ratbold, heads bent together as they talked, and both looked up to count the people waiting beside the gate.
“We’ll close all the gates after you’ve left,” said Ratbold, repeating instructions, “and let no man in.”
“Nor woman either,” said Wolfhere.
“Who will carry the lamps?” asked Berthold. “Where are the horses?”
“No light,” said Wolfhere. “And no horses.”
“We must walk?” asked Jonas disbelievingly.
“How will we see?” asked Berthold.
“I know this path. My lord, the horses are nearly spent. Prior Ratbold has none to offer us. We’ll go faster on foot because we can march night and day. We must move swiftly. The Eika will.”
“The Eika have no horses,” said Ivar. When everyone looked curiously at him, he added, “We saw their army. We were hidden in the trees, upwind. They didn’t know we were there.”
“My lord,” said Wolfhere to Berthold. Berthold nodded, and, that quickly, their party left through the open gate.
Ivar’s feet had grown roots; the wind played around him as branches rattled above and Prior Ratbold watched into the night beyond the gate.
“He never answered me,” muttered Ivar.
“I beg your pardon?” Ratbold asked, without turning.
“I thought,” said Ivar irritably, “that we might join together. Walk southeast together, for safety. Better if Baldwin and I wait for our horses to be reshod…. yet if what the Eagle says is true …”
“Go, or stay,” said Ratbold. “I am about to close this gate, Brother Ivar. Then the choice will be made.”
“We don’t know the path,” said Baldwin.
The others were already out of sight, because of the darkness, but Ivar heard their soft footfalls and a comment from Wolfhere.
“If you would go ahead, Brother Heribert. The night seems no hindrance to your eyes.”
Ivar had a light kit slung over his back, a leather bottle half full of stream water, his sheathed knife, and the injured soldier’s borrowed sword. The night was cool and dark and it smelled of greening, the first rush of spring, although it was summer by the calendar of feast days.
“What must we do?” asked Baldwin.
“I hate to leave the horses.”
“I have a pouch of ale, the bread, and my knife,” said Baldwin brightly.
“Choose,” said Ratbold.
“What do you advise?” asked Ivar desperately.
Ratbold glanced in the direction where, years ago, Ivar and his companions had stumbled down off a hillside crowned with a stone circle. All lay dark along the horizon and in the high heavens. A campfire beyond the orchard had burned down to red coals. A distant lamp glimmered beside the main gate, and another lamp bobbed out on the green where someone walked.
“Best you go,” said Ratbold. “We are better protected if you who are messengers for the noble folk who contest these lands do not sleep within our walls. Then we can claim honestly that we do not take sides in earthly contests.”
“You changed your liturgy,” said Baldwin suddenly.
“You pray to the Lady and Her Son. You have accepted the truth.”
“We could not ignore the sign God sent us,” said Ratbold.
The words troubled Ivar. He felt poked as with the butt of a spear. Be alert! His head told him one thing, but his gut told him another.
“Let’s go,” he said, knowing he had to take the leap or he would never move. “Before they’re too far for us to catch up to them.”
“But our supplies—!” objected Baldwin.
“Almost gone. The horses need a rest. It isn’t far. We’ll be safer with an Eagle to guide us and stout arms to fight by our side.”
He crossed through the gate and, outside, turned back to see that Baldwin remained inside. “Are you coming or staying?”
“What if Hersford is attacked and we’re not here to help them? We can’t just abandon these poor folk, now that their abbot is stolen away from them!” He rubbed at the beard again, which fretted him. “I don’t like traveling.”
He was like a dog that has become accustomed to the leash.
“Then stay and do what you can for these brothers and refugees. I’ll come back for you when all this is over.”
“Ivar…”
“I’m not angry with you, Baldwin. But if I mean to go with those others, I must hurry, or I’ll lose them.”
“It might be best,” muttered Ratbold.
Baldwin shoved both half and whole loaf into Ivar’s arms, then wrestled with a hand and twisted off his lapis lazuli ring, the one he had claimed from the barrow. Shaking, he clutched Ivar’s hand across the open gate and closed Ivar’s fingers over the ring.
“Haven’t we given this back and forth enough times?” Ivar asked, half laughing because he wanted also to cry.
“It will keep you safe.”
“I’m closing the gate,” said Ratbold. And then, “Hush! Do you hear?” The honking of geese swelled out of the night. “This is the wrong season for geese.”
Baldwin jumped back, and the prior scraped the gate closed in Ivar’s face. But he was poised now, ready to fly, and he found the path and walked as swiftly as he could, stumbling twice but able to see the path because it had a slightly lighter color than the ground to either side. He heard a cough, and where the path branched he heard a branch snap and a hissed complaint down along the right fork, and in this way he was able to follow them, although it seemed they were moving fast despite the dark night. Of the unseasonable geese, he heard no further sign. As he gained confidence in his footing, he increased his pace, and a dozen or more paces later he tripped over a foot and found himself facedown with a blade laid against his back.
He gasped into the dirt and choked out his name.
“Ivar? That one who just came, with the refugees?” That was a Wendish voice, thank God. “Let him up. What means this?”
“I pray you, let me travel with you.”
The pressure of the blade eased. He rose to hands and knees, spitting dirt out of his mouth.
“Send him back,” said Lord Berthold.
The Eagle knelt beside him as if examining his face or his weapons. “Nay, best let him come this way, with us.”
“He’s in league with Lady Sabella!” whispered Lord Berthold furiously.
“So can he be there in Hersford, or here with us, and if the latter, we can better keep an eye on him when he is with us.”
“Ah, I see,” said Berthold. “We’ll take him to Prince Sanglant instead.”
The Eagle rose and tapped Ivar on the shoulder. “Come, then, Brother. We’re moving fast. Best you keep up with us, for if you’re lost or stumble behind, we’ll not wait.”
3
“I offer you and your company sanctuary here at Quedlinhame for as long as necessary,” said Mother Scholastica. Rosvita was standing.
The abbess was sitting with her hands spread on the table, her posture rigid, and her mouth fixed in a flat line. “Do not follow my nephew. This is my command, Sister.”
Rosvita nodded humbly. “I hear your words, Mother Scholastica. But I cannot obey. We will continue our journey in the morning, with or without your permission.”
They were alone in the room, although the doors leading into the garden stood open. A nun weeded along a row of lavender not yet in bloom. Although the sky was entirely overcast, the light was bright enough to cast shadows stretching longer and longer as the afternoon crept by. Footsteps grated on a graveled path, and Sister Petra came into view, leading Sapientia as a shepherdess would lead a lamb.
“Is this rebellion?”
“I have always served Henry faithfully, Mother Scholastica.”
Her mouth pinched. One hand balled into a fist. “Your reputation has been spotless, Sister Rosvita. Until now.”
Rosvita remained silent.
“It is a disease, spread among you who rode south into Aosta. Among those who pledge loyalty to Sanglant. I begin to think it is sorcery.”
“I pray you, Mother Scholastica, I respect and honor you. But I will not be insulted. Henry is—was—my regnant, and I served him faithfully. Now I will serve the one he named as heir.”
“Sapientia?” the abbess asked wickedly as she turned to look out the open door into the summer garden. The walkers had vanished, but their step could still be heard, crunching softly and accompanied by the singsong of Petra’s constant soothing chatter. “Henry named Sapientia as heir.”
“He changed his mind. You have seen her and spoken to her. You can see as well as I can that she is not fit to rule.”
“Perhaps. She may yet recover, if given time to rest. The story you have told me, about her ordeal, suggests that her brother left her in the wilderness to die. How does that make him fit to rule? We Wendish do not murder our kinfolk. We have enough trouble here without civil war.”
“That being so, why did you then anoint and robe and crown Prince Sanglant and name him king?”
“I had no choice, at that time. ‘Laws are silent in the presence of arms.’ Witnesses claimed that Henry favored Sanglant—that he named him heir in Aosta. But it appears that Henry believed Sapientia to be dead, at that time. As did I. As did we all, until you brought her here, Sister Rosvita.”
“Henry knew that Theophanu lived. He might have named her as his heir, but it appears he did not.”
Mother Scholastica was a formidable woman, and her glare was that of an eagle ready to strike. Rosvita stood her ground; she did not fear her, although it might be more prudent to do so.
“I will not have this conversation again. I have taken steps to do what is best for the realm. You are well advised to choose carefully, at this time. Do not follow Sanglant, Sister Rosvita.”
“I crave your pardon, Mother Scholastica. My road is set.”
Like opposing armies battling to a standstill on a bridge, they had reached an impasse. Outside, the gardener began raking.
“So be it,” said Scholastica in a cold voice. “Let the nuns from St. Valeria and their treasure of books remain here.”
Rosvita wished fleetingly for a pen or a book, something to shift with her hands to bleed off the disquiet that made her fingers twitch and her ears burn. “What will become of the books?”
Scholastica’s gaze flickered toward a letter folded and sealed with—strangely—the skopos’ gold stamp, signifying the crown of holy stewardship. Underneath the letter rested a single book, wrapped in cloth, which Rosvita recognized as one taken from the chests brought from St. Valeria’s. That yellowed cover with a torn corner had belonged to The Zephyr and the Tempest, a book recording the proscribed arts of the tempestari, the weather workers.
The abbess shook her head, offering no answer. This was to be an armed truce. Outside, the raking ceased, and water splashed.
“The nuns and their treasure will remain here,” the abbess repeated, “and the old abbess. You can’t expect her to continue traveling. She is so frail.”
“It’s true it would be better for Mother Obligatia to rest, but she will insist on accompanying me. You may speak to her yourself.”
“I will do so. You have forced my hand, Sister Rosvita. I am displeased and angered. Because you insist on continuing on this road, I must travel with you to escort Princess Sapientia. To see that she is not put at risk.”
“What risk do you fear? That we intend to murder her?” These impolitic words slipped out of her mouth before she realized she intended to say them. She flushed.
“Is this my answer?” Scholastica asked, with cold irony.
“I am made weary by the long road we have traveled, Mother Scholastica. Forgive my harsh words. She has survived much, these past months. So have we all. Had we wished to see her come to harm, we could have disposed of her at any place along our journey. We could have left her to die in Dalmiaka. But we did not. We have cared for her as well as we could. Many good servants have died on this road—some of my own personal attendants among them—seeing her brought to safety.”
“We shall see.” Scholastica touched the letter and flicked one corner, as if making ready to open it, before pointedly looking at Rosvita. “If you will leave me now, Sister.”
Rosvita had suffered too much to go quietly. Her voic
e still trembled, and she was still angry. “I pray you, Mother Scholastica, let us be honest together. Do you escort Sapientia because you do not trust me?”
“You will deliver her to Sanglant.”
“You cannot possibly believe that Sanglant would harm her?”
Scholastica gestured toward the garden where, propitiously, the slack-faced Sapientia had come back into view as Petra coaxed her along. “He already has.”
4
“HOLY MOTHER! I pray you! Wake up!”
The twilight had barely begun its transition toward day, so the servant held a lamp to lighten the gloom. Antonia did not scold her. Over the months she had bided in Novomo after the fall of Darre, she had purged her retinue of any servants who displeased her. Felicita would never disturb her without cause. They feared her, as all people must fear God and, thus, God’s holy representative on Earth.
“What news?” She had the knack of coming instantly alert, without confusion.
Felicita was holding the lamp close to her own face, and her startled, wide eyes and parted lips betrayed her anxiety.
“An ill wind,” added Antonia.
Felicita began to weep while struggling to speak. “I pray you, Holy Mother. I am so frightened!”
Too frightened to speak sensibly, the woman babbled of creatures with human bodies and animal heads, of a flashing wheel of gold, and of folk falling into a writhing, spitting death from the merest prick of a dart. Other servants, newly woken, brought robes and a belt and slippers and helped Antonia dress.
“Hush! Take me to the queen and her consort!”
Captain Falco appeared at the door to her suite and escorted her to Novomo’s proud gate, a legacy of ancient days when the old Dariyans had founded the city as, so the story went, an outpost along the road that led north over the mountains into barbarian country. The captain said nothing, and she asked no questions, preferring to see for herself. Felicita trailed after, coughing out sobs and heaving great sighs as she fought to control her fear.
