by Kate Elliott
There, Liath saw them, the red eagle banner of Fesse with a small knot of soldiers surrounding Lady Amalia, all striking furiously around themselves as, one by one, their horses staggered and collapsed or they themselves were dragged from their mounts. Her black horse raised and kicked at Eika and dog alike, Lady Amalia seated firmly on its back. She had lost both lance and shield and now cut so fiercely to either side with her sword that her attack itself was her shield.
The red eagle banner faltered and crumpled, drowned by the flood, and a great roar of triumph rose from the Eika host. Beyond, the gold lion of Saony was never still as Wichman and his men broke through the small openings between the Eika bands, slaying as they rode, and then turned and charged again into their midst to rescue the red eagle.
Lavastine had brought his riders through and now they regrouped. Behind them, Lord Dedi, in a black tabard and beneath the standard of the raven tower, led a charge through the ranks of those Eika who struggled to form back up, faltering as the weight of the horses drove them again into disorder.
Lacking armor, Liath stayed out of the thick of the fight. A few Eika charged her, perhaps thinking an archer easy prey, but all fell pierced through the chest.
To the east Gent sat silent. Its gates stood closed, shut tight, and she felt from within the watchful eye, the gloating trimphant heart, of Bloodheart. The Eika standards that bobbed upon the field were not his; he did not walk this bloody ground. She knew it. He waited, and watched through his magic, while his Eika fought for him. What need had he to test his strength on the field? He had already killed Prince Sanglant, the best among them. These were but nuisances, rats to smash beneath his heel while he waited for his real prey to arrive: the king.
A movement flashed to her right. She shook off these disheartening thoughts and quickly nocked, drew, and shot a charging Eika. Was this more of his magic, to dishearten his foes as they felt him gloating over his imminent triumph? Wasn’t that all illusion was, the power to project your own will upon others, to make them see what you wished them to see?
Upon the hill the host of Eika massed thickest. She saw no trace of Alain or his guard except the infantry standard which still commanded the height of the hill. Ai, Lord! Eika swarmed the ramparts. The cavalry had not broken the back of the Eika charge, only stemmed it in places. Even as Lavastine gave the signal to charge back through, she knew the impetus of their attack had gone, that no help could be given to those trapped on the hill.
The charge lumbered forward, gained speed, and Liath hunkered down as they thundered through the back ranks. Ahead, a countercharge by Lord Dedi had cleared an opening, and for this opening Lavastine rode with his cousin at his side and his men hard behind him.
The banner of Fesse had vanished beneath the churning sea of Eika. Beyond, the gold lion of Saony regrouped and charged again only to withdraw swiftly, regroup and change position, and charge again, slowly working ever eastward until the banner stood between the Eika and the city.
The standard of Lavas together with Lord Geoffrey and Liath and most of the men finally reached the open ground, but as Liath turned to look behind she gasped. Lavastine, perhaps unwilling, perhaps trapped by the press, remained behind with a half dozen of his men, striking wildly about himself. Lord Geoffrey called out to him, but his voice made no more sound amidst the tumult than the pouring of water from a cup against the booming reverberation of a waterfall.
An Eika dog charged under Lavastine’s mount, ripping at its underbelly, and the horse leaped into the air only to be struck by three spears in its chest. Lavastine sank beneath the waves.
Without hesitation Geoffrey and his men charged headlong into the Eika, their onslaught so irresistible that the outermost rank of Eika were trampled beneath them. The Eika surrounding Lavastine, intent on their prey, went down under a furious wave of cuts and jabs.
Liath stared with an arrow loose in her hand as Geoffrey caught his cousin up behind him and rode back to safety. Lavastine’s helmet bore two deep dents. Lavastine slid off the back of the horse, struggled with his helm, then yanked it from his head and threw it with disgust to the ground. He coughed, sucking in air. On the left side of his face, where his mail coif covered his cheek, rivulets of blood ran and the metal rings had crushed into his skin from the heat of a blow.
A soldier brought a riderless mount, and the count swung on.
Lord Dedi, already regrouped, rode up. “Count Lavastine! Lord have mercy, I thought they had you.”
Two troops of Eika formed into units under their dreadful banners and set out at a trot after the retreating horsemen.
Lavastine’s gaze swept the field. “Where is Bloodheart?” he demanded. Anger flared in his expression, then damped down to furious concentration as he surveyed the chaos beyond. Of the cavalry, only the two groups with him now and the distant standard of Saony still rode. “Ai, Lord,” he breathed. “Does my banner yet fly upon the hill?”
All of them, Liath, Lord Geoffrey, Lord Dedi, the men surrounding them, and last of all Lavastine, wiping blood from his eyes, turned. High up on the height of the hill, the banner pole above his pavilion snapped at that moment and fell amid an Eika assault.
Lord Geoffrey leaned forward. “Cousin, the day belongs to Bloodheart. Let us gather our forces and retreat to join with Henry. We can prevent a rout of the men who yet remain on the hill and screen their westward retreat if we move in on the western side.”
“Where is Bloodheart?” demanded Lavastine again, and he looked at Liath.
She pointed to Gent.
“That the day is lost is an illusion,” he said hoarsely. “An illusion cast by Bloodheart, who is an enchanter.” Blood streamed from his head, matting his hair, and one of his hands was streaked with blood trickling from a wound on his arm. “We must have faith.”
“Faith!” Geoffrey cried. “Prudence would have served us better! If only we had waited for the king at Steleshame!”
“For how long? With what provisions? Our supplies run low, and this land is exhausted by war and neglect. Nay, Geoffrey, I took the course that seemed wisest to me then. Now we must take the only course open to us. We must strike from behind or all is lost, including that which is most precious to me.” He glanced again at the hill, where the fighting ran thick and the standard was lost, then deliberately away as if to shut it out of his thoughts. Only by that small gesture could Liath see how much his son meant to him. Lord Geoffrey flinched back as at a rebuke.
“Lord Dedi,” continued Lavastine. His voice had the brisk confidence of a man without a care in the world—and no time to waste. “Take your men and ride ’round to join with Saony. Do not allow the Eika to return to the gates of Gent. Geoffrey, take half the men of Lavas, the standard, and those of Fesse that you can muster and join Lord Dedi. The rest, with me.” His gaze, taut, like a bowstring strung tight, met Liath’s. “Eagle, how long must they keep the Eika at bay for us to take the gates from within?”
She glanced at the sky, judging the height of the sun. “To midday, at least.”
“So be it. Watch for us at the gates. If we do not appear, then save those you can and join with Henry. God be with you.”
The sound of the riders shifting to their new order rushed around her like the flow of the river that night on the Veser.
“Eagle,” said Lavastine. Blood mottled his face and hair. Bruises stood out on the sharp plane of his cheek. Behind, the pound of the drums throbbed over the field while the clash of arms and the wail and shout of men and Eika alike rose like an unholy, intangible wraith off the battleground. The count lifted a hand to ready his troops, those splitting off with him, but he did not take his gaze from Liath. “Lead on, Eagle. To your sight we now entrust our victory.”
3
SOON after midday a message eddied down through the column that was Henry’s army, and in its trail ran an audible buzz of excitement and fear.
“Hai! Hai!” shouted the messenger, none other than Henry’s favored Eagle, Hathui, as
she pulled up her mount beside the wagon that held the clerical paraphernalia. She had a strong voice that carried easily over the train of wagons now shuddering to a halt as their drivers slowed oxen and horses and bent to listen. Rosvita’s servingman stopped walking and set a hand to the nose of the mule she rode. The other clerics, mounted on donkeys or walking beside her, also came to a halt.
“Word has come from an outrider that battle has been joined outside Gent. The train is to travel on as far as it can before dusk while the army marches ahead.”
“Eagle!” Rosvita caught her attention before she could ride on. “How far are we from Gent?”
The Eagle’s sharp gaze measured the cleric, and then suddenly the marchland woman grinned grimly. “Too far, I fear. The scout who rode in had taken a horse from her comrade, so that she could switch from one to the other and make better time. Even so, both horses foundered when she reached us. The battle was joined about the hour of Terce, she guesses, and it has taken her since then—with two horses—to reach us.” The Eagle glanced reflexively up at the sky. Rosvita squinted, wincing at the high glare of the sun. Sext had passed, though they had not halted to sing the proper psalms. “Over three hours ago,” she murmured; and the daylight hours in summer were long.
“I wielded a wicked staff when I was a girl!” said Sister Amabilia suddenly. She twirled her walking stick in her hands quite convincingly for a woman who had spent the last ten years as a studious cleric.
“Then it’s well you’ll remain behind with the train,” said the Eagle, already looking ahead, trying to sight the reserve that marched behind the halted wagons. “If by some evil chance the Eika escape our net and swing wide to attack those of you left behind the main army, the infant Hippolyte will need stout defenders. I must go, Sister.” She nodded to Rosvita and rode on.
All was in an uproar as drivers, servants, and guard talked at once. But eventually the line got going again. Soon the Eagle came thundering back toward the head of the line. After her rode Villam and the cavalry reserve. He paused as he came alongside Rosvita, and once again her servant stilled her mule so that she could speak with the margrave.
“My infantry, about one hundred men, I leave behind to guard you. Pull your wagons into a circle if you haven’t reached Gent by dusk. Then move on in the morning. Under no account keep traveling in disorder. Princess Hippolyte will be placed under your care.”
“Go with God, Lord Villam,” said Rosvita, making the sign of the Unities to bless him and his soldiers. “May we see victory before the sun sets.”
“May we get there before the sun sets,” muttered Villam. He signed to his captain who called out the order to advance. Soon Villam and his cavalry, too, vanished into the forest ahead as the wagons trundled on. The reserve infantry jogged up and their captain deployed them around the wagon train much as Rosvita imagined stock-drovers might surround a large herd of cattle in the wild lands, protecting them from wolves.
Soon the solitude grew eerie and disturbing. In two days of travel beyond Steleshame, she had stopped hearing the distant sounds of the host ahead and the reserve behind. Now, when she could no longer hear the distant sounds of their passage before and behind, she noticed their lack.
“Ho!” A shout carried from the forward scouts. “Party ahead!”
An anxious group of servants waited for them alongside the track. By this means Rosvita could see how far ahead Duchess Liutgard and Princess Sapientia had pushed their groups even in the course of the regular march. The men and women clustered here greeted them with relief and explained that they consisted of those noncombatants who had for one reason or another ridden ahead with the main army. Most importantly, they included Sapientia’s personal servants with her traveling pavilion and her baby, the precious child whose existence conferred on Sapientia the right to rule after Henry.
Father Hugh was not among them.
Rosvita found one of his servingmen at once, a monk called Brother Simplicus who had come with him from Firsebarg Abbey. He leaned against a tree a bit away from the others and combed a hand nervously through his thinning hair. A beautifully carved chest rested on the ground at his feet with a stone wedged under one corner so he could grip one side easily when it came time to pick it up.
“Brother,” she called, indicating that he should come over to her. He started, surprised at her notice, and hefted the chest. It took some effort for him to lumber over to her; not a big man, he had also the rabbity eyes of a man made nervous by small worries.
“Where is Father Hugh?” she asked kindly.
With a grunt he set down the chest again, grimacing as he tipped it up on one foot. “He rode out with the army.” His nose was running. He glanced around, then wiped it on his sleeve and twitched nervously under her gaze. “I begged him not to, good Sister. I am well aware that a man of the church ought to walk in peace and …” Here he faltered, evidently coming to the conclusion that she did not mean to rebuke him for his failure to keep his noble superior from doing what the man had clearly already determined to do. “B-but he armed himself in mail and helm and with sword strapped over his back rode out beside the princess.”
“No doubt Father Hugh has training at arms,” she said, meaning to comfort him. With some difficulty she kept her gaze off the chest. “Even in battle his presence may provide ballast for the princess, should she need counsel. Many a good churchman or woman has fought when desperate need arose.” But her thoughts were not on battle, not right now. For some odd reason Sister Amabilia’s comment, made months ago, popped into her head: “A bird’s feathers may change in color, but it’s the same duck inside!”
And she smiled. “Brother Simplicus, bide with us as we travel. Set your chest in the wagon so that you may walk more lightly. It looks to be a heavy burden.”
Ah, he was tempted. She recognized the look. He glanced at the chest and winced as it shifted more heavily onto his foot, the other end pressing deeply into the loamy ground. First he ran a hand through his thin hair, then scratched at his shaven chin nervously as he swept the woods with a wary gaze, and finally toyed with the two thin gold chains at his neck.
“I wonder,” commented Rosvita casually, “if those trees conceal Eika scouts. Alas, I fear they might spring out from the woods upon us at any moment.”
He started, almost comical in his fear; not, she chided herself, that he didn’t have good reason to feel afraid. “Nay, I dare not, Sister,” he said at last. “Father Hugh charged me not to let it out of my grasp.”
“Well, then,” she said, and signaled to the captain. The train lurched forward.
But of course he tired after a while. He didn’t look to be a strong man, pampered perhaps by the light service set on him as Hugh’s personal servingman. Finally, as he staggered along with his eyes darting from one side to the other and his face blazoned with an understandable fear that if he lagged, he might simply be left behind to suffer a terrible death at the hands of Eika or bandits or such creatures as lurk in the woods at night, she coaxed him to set the chest into the wagon. There he walked close beside with one hand always clutching the rim, sometimes to test that the chest had not vanished, sometimes to rest his weight and gain some respite as he puffed along. She did not offer to let him ride in the wagon or on one of the ponies, although there were a few ponies to spare for riding.
On they went, at a steady pace, but the track was neglected and narrow and, after all, wagons cannot move as quickly as soldiers and horses.
Dusk came, and the captain found a decent clearing. He supervised the wagons as the drivers brought them into a circle, making a rough fortress of them. The livestock were driven inside and in these cramped quarters rank with the smell of ox and horse manure and crowded with drivers and grooms and servants terrified at being left this far behind and yet relieved at being in a relative vale of peace, they set up a spartan camp. Rosvita led the clerics in Vespers.
Princess Sapientia’s servants worked efficiently and quickly to set up her pavili
on. In this shelter they installed the baby. In the brief interlude between Vespers and Compline, Rosvita went in to pay her respects.
Little Hippolyte rested in the arms of her wet nurse with perfect equanimity. She had a bright gaze for such a young baby, dark hair like her mother, and eyes as blue as her father’s. She had a happy gurgle compounded half of fat contentment and half of spit-up. In particular, she liked to grasp things: fingers, jewelry, rolls of cloth, the hafts of spoons and, once, that of a knife—quickly taken away but not before she could wave it lustily about while her wet nurse squealed, her servingwomen crowed with laughter, and Rosvita finally and gently pried the dangerous knife from her chubby little fingers.
“Aye, she’ll fight off the Eika for us!” chuckled the servants.
“Let us pray for her safety,” said Rosvita sternly, which made them frown and grow serious. They were glad enough to kneel with her as she sang a brief Compline service over the baby to give it the protection of God’s blessing for the night.
Then she excused herself and retired to find that her own orders had been carried out and her small traveling tent had been erected. A servant had lit a lantern and hung it from the central pole where its light cast distorted shadows over the cloth walls and the carpet pressed down over the meadow grass. Sister Amabilia had already lain down on her pallet and was now snoring softly. The other clerics, sitting outside the tent reserved for the men among their number, sat or stood around the wagon while they chatted softly—and not without an edge of nervousness in their voices.
Rosvita made her way to the healers and begged an infusion of one of the herbwomen, something to calm nerves and bring sleep. It took only a few words to coax Brother Simplicus into drinking it, and there was even some left over for Brother Fortunatus. She regretted the deception of Brother Fortunatus but, unlike Amabilia and Constantine, he was not a sound sleeper.
