“Knight brother of the Order of the Shield of Saint Benedict,” Odard said quietly, agreeing with her unspo ken thought. “Not the worst possible news. He won’t be reporting to the Regent, or Cardinal-Archbishop Maxwell. But they’re an independent-minded bunch.”
Mathilda nodded. The Benedictine monastery at Mount Angel had come through the Change on its own and had been a rallying point for resistance to the Portland Protective Association and its then-schismatic Church. Mount Angel and the Protectorate both sent delegates to the Meeting at Corvallis these days, but there was still a lingering suspicion. And she knew that her mother resented the influence of the Order’s mis sions and daughter houses in the interior and the far south.
“Wait a minute,” she said as the man drew closer. “I recognize him. That’s Father Ignatius—he’s a priest as well as a brother—he was in Sutterdown when the Cut ters attacked. He’s been at court in Portland lately, too, some sort of diplomatic mission from Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski.”
The hood of his robe was thrown back to show bowl cut black hair and a tonsure. The face beneath was weathered like leather and had a scar along the right side of the square jaw, but it was only a few years older than hers, the eyes dark and watchful and slightly tilted, shaped a little like Odard’s. He was of medium height, only a bit taller than she, but broad-shouldered. The hands on the reins were shapely but large, with thick corded wrists.
The warrior-cleric drew rein and signed the air. “Bless you, my children,” he said. “Dominus vobiscum.”
“And with your spirit, Father,” they replied. The priest went on to the young chaperone: “Lady Catherine, it was thought that I would make a more suitable escort for Her Highness, since she plans to push on to the upper valley to see the scenery there, and may stay overnight at Castle Akers in Parkdale. The chatelaine there can see to her needs.”
Duty warred with sudden hope on the young noble woman’s round plump face. Mathilda gave her a smile and a nod, and she burst out happily: “Thank you, Your Highness, reverend Father!”
Mathilda fought down both relief and suspicion until the other young woman had heeled her placid gelding into a trot back towards the civilized comforts of the castle solar. Then she turned narrow-eyed inquiry to Ignatius.
“Who exactly did you mean when you said ‘it was thought’ you’d make a better escort, Father?”
The priest’s brown eyes were calm. “I suggested it to the countess, my child,” he said. “Without, I’m afraid, drawing attention to the fact that I did not say I would be returning from there. It allayed her worries about you, and you won’t be missed until tomorrow evening at the earliest. . . . You are planning to escape over the border and join Rudi Mackenzie on his journey to the east, aren’t you?”
“Why, Father, why would you suspect any such thing?” she asked in turn, controlling a gasp of dismay.
Answer a question with a question when you don’t want to answer, she thought, and then went on: “That would be a reckless thing to do!”
“Daughter, don’t lie to me. For starters, you’re rather bad at it.”
He began to tick off points on his fingers. “Primus, you were with Rudi Mackenzie when the assassins attacked. Secundus, you were privy to his tale of the mysterious events on Nantucket—”
Her eyes went wide in shock. “How do you know about that?” she said.
He smiled grimly, showing teeth that were white but a little uneven.
“Holy Mother Church has many sources of information—and from well beyond this corner of the world. Tertius, you and Rudi Mackenzie and his half sisters and Baron Odard here have all dropped out of sight . . . heading east. The inference is obvious. I might add that as soon as your mother hears of your disappearance, she will know what you have done.”
“I left a letter for her with someone I trusted,” Mathilda said sullenly.
“Clever clerics give me heartburn.” Odard chuckled. “They tend to push in where they’re not wanted. Shall I rid you of this troublesome priest, Princess?”
He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword and raised a brow at her.
“Oh, stop posturing, Odard,” Mathilda said impatiently. “I know you’ll bash whomever I tell you to bash, but that’s ridiculous here.”
At least, I hope he’s posturing. Priest murder is sacrilege! she thought. Aloud she went on: “And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s got a sword too.”
“I did,” Odard said, with the same lazy smile. “A man who wears a sword should expect to have to use it, tonsure and robe or no.”
“I am willing to use it,” Ignatius said. “Against the enemies of peace, and of the Faith, whom we’ve been given dispensation to fight by the Holy Father. Do you wish to join one of those two categories, my lord Odard?”
“A knight brother knows how to use the sword too,” Mathilda pointed out. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
The priest turned his gaze to her. “Daughter, are you determined on this course? For as you said, it is reckless.”
“You’re not my confessor, Father!” she snapped.
Unexpectedly, Ignatius smiled. “For which, thanks be to God!”
Mathilda found herself chuckling for an instant, and abandoned the attempt to hold on to her anger.
“Then what are you questioning me for?” she asked. “Father,” she added after a moment.
“My child, being who and what you are, your actions affect more than yourself. This is your responsibility; God gives us each a cross to carry, as heavy as we can bear—neither more nor less. My responsibility is to the head of my Order . . . and he has ordered me to investigate the matter of Ingolf Vogeler, and the assassins who pursued him here. The Order of the Shield has been watching the growth of this dangerous cult in Montana for some time now. What we know does not please us; and we must know more.”
Mathilda arched her brows. “You don’t intend to try to stop me?” she said bluntly.
Ignatius shrugged. “The Regent is not my ruler; Abbot-Bishop Dmwoski is. Furthermore you will be Lady Protector in only a few more years, and it is my judgment that your displeasure then if I, ah, fink you out would do more to endanger the interests of the Order than angering your mother now. Besides which, if we hurry we can probably cross the border well before any one finds out what’s going on. When . . . if . . . we return, things will be very different.”
Mathilda stood for a moment, and then threw up her hands with a laugh. “Let’s go, then. It’ll be a comfort to have the sacraments available on the way. Not including extreme unction, I hope!”
When Ignatius grinned, you suddenly remembered he was a young man himself. He slapped his sword hilt and replied, “Perhaps I can help us avoid that one.”
Odard bowed slightly. “As the princess commands,” he said. Then after a long considering look at the priest: “And perhaps it’s just a good idea anyway, too.”
They swung back into the saddle and headed south at a ground-covering pace, walk-trot-canter trot-walk; she and Odard had chosen their horses carefully. Not the big destriers that cost more than a knight’s armor—those would be waiting for them in Bend, if all went well—but good sized long legged palfreys. The cleric’s horses were fine stock as well, and not carrying too much weight; he was whipcord and sinew rather than bulk. Mount Angel had rich lands, including stud farms with a growing reputation.
The narrow passage along the river opened up into broad fields and orchards again southward; the skin between Mathilda’s shoulder blades crawled as they passed the last castle of the Upper Valley, where the railroad stopped and just before the valley floor rippled up into the ridges around the base of Mount Hood. The tall square tower of the keep flew a banner with a saw-edge circle, sable on argent. Those were the arms of the Akers family, barons but not tenants-in chief, vassals of the Counts of Odell rather than the throne. She expected the garrison to be as alert as any of her mother’s own household forces, but they evidently didn’t consider a monk and two gentlefolk heading out
of the valley any of their business.
“Phew!” Mathilda said as the last field gave way to forest.
It was cooler under the shade of the great Douglas and grand firs, and the ground was rising; they were more than a thousand feet higher than the Columbia gorge now. The faint smells of woodsmoke and habita tion were gone, noticeable only by their absence. The tiny white and pink flowers of shade-loving sourgrass bloomed under the tall trees, and snowy colored tril lium; ferns were sprouting through the damp litter of leaf and needle, and a patch of yellow violet trembled gold beside a stream. After the first few miles they saw few traces of human hands except the road itself. Birds were noisy with their spring mating rituals, and once a small herd of elk crossed in front of them and went crashing eastward in alarm.
The area of the old Mount Hood wilderness and much besides was Lord Protector’s personal reserve, land under forest law where nobody could hunt or cut timber without special leave. Odard and the priest looked over at her as she snorted laughter.
“It’s just that technically speaking, this is my land we’re on. Yet I’m sneaking through it like a poacher afraid of a whipping from the verderers!”
The two men chuckled. Odard lifted his head. “And speaking of poachers, I think I smell venison cooking. Good man, Alex. And a dab hand with a crossbow.”
Mathilda tested the air; there was woodsmoke and grilling meat, sure enough. A minute later the narrow road turned and revealed a small stretch of meadow, an ancient campground. Twenty-odd years and heavy rains had left nothing of picnic tables save green mounds, but the stone hearth was still usable. Odard’s manservant Alex was there, with five hobbled horses, their pack saddles . . . and yes, pieces of venison on skewers over glowing coals, giving off a smell that made her mouth water. The neatly butchered carcass of a yearling doe hung in sections from a branch; Alex had wrapped the chunks he was cooking in bacon from the supplies, since the meat would be lean this time of year.
It had been a long time since their breakfast at Castle Odell, and it would have looked suspicious to pack along supplies for what was supposed to be a short trip to look at the flowers.
“Your Highness,” Alex said, bowing, not even a twitch to show he was surprised at seeing three riders instead of two. “My lord Odard. And most reverend father in God. No sign of the foresters who ought to be patrol ling. Even if the Princess was graciously pleased to give me a signed warrant, they should have checked, the idle bastards. It’s not as if I’m hiding.”
Odard grinned; he’d told her Alex could manage get ting their gear ready and meeting them with it, and evidently he’d been right.
“No problem getting past the road patrols?” he said to his servant.
Alex shrugged. “I’m just another commoner, my lord. Nobody notices us—and there’s no tax on goods leaving Association territory. It’s not like the old days, when they were on the lookout for runaway peons.”
Ouch, Mathilda thought. Well, those were hard times; hard measures were necessary. The thought was well-worn and increasingly unsatisfying.
She dismounted; they took a moment to unsaddle and hobble their horses, and pour out oats from the packsad dles. Those contained a little food, but mostly the essentials of their gear, things you couldn’t buy in a town market. Principally their armor, since a really first class suit had to be fitted like fine clothing. Her battle harness included a set of titanium mesh-mail, the priceless work of half a dozen specialists laboring for years, stronger than even the best steel and only a third the weight, besides being rustproof.
Sneaking it out of the palace had been a major pain. She’d felt a quiet glow of accomplishment when she man aged it without—she very much hoped without—anyone important noticing. Right now the venison kebabs felt more important. Alex had fresh bread with them, and butter and soft cheese and pickled vegetables. . . .
* * * *
Two days later Mathilda’s horse drank, and then raised its dripping muzzle from a pool. The spring that made it flowed from a split in the dark basalt lava, and they’d paused to fill their canteens and let their mounts drink. Hers nosed towards a tall purple stalk of larkspur; she put her hand on its muzzle and pushed against the hairy weight to distract it—the plant was pretty, but its other name was poison delphinium.
“How did you beasts survive before we people came along to look after you?” she asked it with rhetorical indignation and fed it some dried apple.
Then the animal lost interest in water and feed both. Its ears cocked forward and it raised its head, snorting and staring westward. A crow launched itself from the boughs of a willow that stood a little downstream trail ing its branches in the water, calling gruk-gruk gruk as its wings flogged the cool air. A pair of pintail ducks swam away, then decided to follow it, skittering down the little creek with their feet splashing at the surface as they made their takeoff.
“Heads up, Your Highness, Father,” Odard said quietly. “Told you we were on Warm Springs land by now. The Three Tribes are touchy about their borders, too. There was a lot of raiding around here in the old days.”
“Yeah,” Mathilda said, tightening the girth. “Someone spotted us yesterday, I think. They probably hightailed it for help.”
She swung back into the saddle, and stopped her hand on its way to the bow cased at her knee with an effort of will; they weren’t here to fight. Her warning hiss made Alex stop his hand reaching towards the light crossbow he kept hanging at his, and the four of them rode up out of the hollow onto a long open swelling. The grass land was green with spring and starred with white flow ers and sage that gave a strong clean scent when hooves crushed it, and scattered with dwarf juniper. Mount Hood loomed directly west, which meant they were on reservation land.
The rumble of hooves grew louder, and a dozen horsemen came out of the rise half a mile southward. They headed straight for the travelers at a gallop, and then split and surrounded them amid high yelps and ki yi! yips and thundering hooves; that was good tactics, and it would give them a psychological advantage. All of them had bows, quivers over their backs, shetes at their waists and lariats hanging from their saddlebows. They had round painted shields as well, and one or two carried light spears; their hair was in braids, and most wore feathers in it. More feathers and beads and shellwork picked out their gear and horse harness and the leather vests they wore over colorful shirts or bare skin.
“Let’s hope they’re honest,” Odard murmured as the noise and dust enveloped them.
Mathilda nodded, and her mouth went a little dry; their horses and gear were worth a good deal. The strangers’ leader reined his own beautiful white-spotted Appa loosa in; he had a band of white paint across his upper face and black circles around his eyes and a tanned wolf head on his steel cap, with the muzzle shading his face like the bill of a hat and a fall of hide covering his neck.
He looked as if he were about thirty, with raven-black braids hanging past his shoulders and halfway down the steerhide vest sewn with stainless-steel washers he wore as display and armor. He also had the nearly beardless ruddy-brown skin, high cheekbones and nar row black eyes of a full-blood Indian; his followers were all younger, and they ranged from looks much like his to tow hair and blue eyes. People had moved around a lot right after the Change, even out here where the die off hadn’t been so bad, and then mostly copied the customs of whoever took them in. Or the customs those people put together out of half memories and legends in a world gone mad. . . .
“So,” he said, after looking them over. “You folks are from the Protectorate, right? And maybe the priest, too?”
Mathilda felt herself flush at the tone. He could tell where she and Odard and the servant came from by their dress—boots, baggy pants, and belted T-tunics worn over full-sleeved linen shirts. She and Odard had left off the golden spurs of knighthood and avoided the distinctive roll edged round hats with dangling side tails that nobles wore, using broad brimmed Stetsons instead. She flushed again as she realized that the man had seen her react
ion.
The other Indians talked among themselves in a lan guage she recognized—Chinook Jargon—but couldn’t speak. She didn’t think they were making compliments, though; and they were probably using the tongue to psych out the intruders, since she knew they spoke English at home most of the time. Her temper boiled over.
“The charter of the Meeting at Corvallis says people from all member states can travel freely through the ter ritories of the others on peaceful and lawful business,” she snapped. “Last time I looked, the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs were members of the Meeting.”
The men circling them bristled at that. “I’m in charge of this section of the council’s border guards,” their leader said sharply. “Foreigners have to give an account of themselves. You could be bandits or rustlers—we’ve lost some stock lately.”
The priest raised a soothing hand.
“I’m Father Ignatius, from Mount Angel,” he said. “We’re peaceful travelers heading for Bend.”
The narrow dark eyes of the Indian leader flicked from her to the priest, to Odard’s politely watchful smile and to Alex’s blankness.
I shouldn’t have said anything, Mathilda told herself. I’m noticeable enough, in men’s clothes.
That wasn’t actually forbidden in the Association’s territories anymore, but it was fairly rare.
“If you’re heading for Bend, you’re doing it way off the main road,” the Indian said. “Except on the highway nobody travels our land without our leave.”
“Yes, we are off the road,” Ignatius replied in a friendly tone. “But just passing through nonetheless, and taking nothing but a little water and grass.”
The other man thought for an instant and then gave a slight nod; his followers relaxed.
“Name’s Winnemucca,” he said, extending a hand.
The priest shook; there was a jostling and shifting of horses as the others of their party did. The Indian’s eyes widened a little as he felt the sword calluses on Mathil da’s hand, and the strength of it. His own was like a rawhide glove over living metal.
The Sunrise Lands Page 26
