Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars 2)

The presbyter grunted. “All the more reason to remove her from this guest house.” He signed to his manservant, turned with a swirl of rich fabric, and climbed the steps into the gloom above where another servant waited to light him to his chamber.

Wolfhere turned to the guest-master. “My apologies for inconveniencing you again, good brother. Have you any other chamber that might serve our purpose?”

The guest-master glanced at the presbyter’s manservant, who sniffed audibly, steepled his fingers, and tapped his thumbs together impatiently. “At times it happens that a brother or traveler is disturbed by evil spirits who have insinuated themselves into his mind, and at those times we must isolate him in a locked chamber in the infirmary until an effusion of herbs or a healing can extricate the creature from his body. It is not what I would choose for a biscop, even one accused of such, um, undertakings, but—” He hesitated, perhaps fearing that Wolfhere’s reaction would be as explosive as that of the presbyter, but in the end he glanced again toward the manservant. Worse to insult a presbyter than one of King Henry’s Eagles, especially considering—Hanna reminded herself—that they were not in Henry’s kingdom now.

bench beside the gateway sat a monk, brown-robed, hooded, and silent. The lantern hung from a post, illuminating him in a pool of soft light. He lifted a weather-roughened hand at their approach and without speaking opened the gate to let them in. Because she was a woman and thus could not be admitted to the innermost cloister, she had seen few of the monks. Of those, only the genial cellarer—the monk in charge of provisions—and the guest-master seemed willing, or permitted, to speak to visitors. Many monks and nuns took a vow of silence, of course. The brothers at Sheep’s Head were rumored never to speak at all once they had passed out of the novitiate, communicating only with hand signs.

Wolfhere opened his lantern and blew out its flame. Together, they trudged in pale moonlight past the ripe-smelling dung heap. A fence scraped her thigh and she smelled the rich tang of plants as they walked alongside the garden. Beyond this enclosure stood half a dozen squat beehives. Finally, they came in among the outbuildings: stables, kitchen, bakery, kiln, and forge—dark and empty at this hour except for a single form sitting beside the dull red coals, tending the fire. The hostel of the monks of St. Servitius was famous, Wolfhere had told her, not just because some of them lived here the winter through, despite snow and ice and bitter cold, but also because they kept a blacksmith.

As they came up to the guest house, a young monk, unhooded, hurried out the door and away to the right, toward the infirmary. His reddish-pale hair and coltish gait reminded Hanna abruptly and painfully of her milk brother Ivar.

Was he well? Had he forgiven her for choosing to stay with Liath rather than go with him?

Wolfhere sighed suddenly and squared his shoulders. Shaken out of her thoughts, Hanna heard shrill voices from the entryway. They mounted the wood steps into the entry chamber, now lit by four candles, and right into the middle of an argument.

2

“THIS guest house is reserved,” said a sallow man Hanna immediately identified as the insufferable manservant to the presbyter, “for those who arrive on horseback. It is quite impossible that these common soldiers be stationed here.”

“But the prisoners—” This objection, raised by the inoffensive guest-master, was quelled at once by the presbyter himself, who now stepped out of the shadows.

“I will not let my rest be disturbed by their shuffling and muttering,” said the presbyter, his Wendish marred by a thick accent. He had a thin, aristocratic voice, fully as imperious as that of the nobles she had observed during her weeks attending King Henry’s progress. But of course he, too, was a man of noble birth; with a perpetually curled-down lip, soft, white hands, and the imposingly portly demeanor of a man who feasts more days than not, one could never have mistaken him for a farmer or a hard-working craftsman. “The two guards who are standing watch over the prisoners must be moved. If that means the prisoners must be moved, so be it.”

Wolfhere responded blandly. “Are you suggesting Biscop Antonia and Brother Heribert be quartered in the stables with the servants?”

The presbyter’s eyes flared, and he looked mightily irritated, as if he suspected Wolfhere of baiting him. “I am suggesting, Eagle, that you and those you are responsible for do not disturb my rest.”

“Your rest is of supreme importance to me, Your Honor,” said Wolfhere with no apparent irony, “but I swore to King Henry of Wendar and Varre that I would deliver Biscop Antonia and her cleric to the palace of the skopos, Her Holiness Clementia. This building—” he gestured to stone walls and tight shutters,“—grants me a measure of security. You know, of course, that Biscop Antonia is accused of sorcery and might be capable of any foul act.”

The presbyter grunted. “All the more reason to remove her from this guest house.” He signed to his manservant, turned with a swirl of rich fabric, and climbed the steps into the gloom above where another servant waited to light him to his chamber.

Wolfhere turned to the guest-master. “My apologies for inconveniencing you again, good brother. Have you any other chamber that might serve our purpose?”

The guest-master glanced at the presbyter’s manservant, who sniffed audibly, steepled his fingers, and tapped his thumbs together impatiently. “At times it happens that a brother or traveler is disturbed by evil spirits who have insinuated themselves into his mind, and at those times we must isolate him in a locked chamber in the infirmary until an effusion of herbs or a healing can extricate the creature from his body. It is not what I would choose for a biscop, even one accused of such, um, undertakings, but—” He hesitated, perhaps fearing that Wolfhere’s reaction would be as explosive as that of the presbyter, but in the end he glanced again toward the manservant. Worse to insult a presbyter than one of King Henry’s Eagles, especially considering—Hanna reminded herself—that they were not in Henry’s kingdom now.

“That will do very well,” said Wolfhere easily. “But will it inconvenience the Brother Infirmarian?”

“I think not. At this time we have only one aged brother resting there who is too feeble for our daily rounds.”

“Hanna.” Wolfhere nodded at her. “Go fetch the other Lions. Once the Brother Infirmarian has made all ready, we will transfer the prisoners to their new cell.”

Satisfied, the manservant hurried up the stairs to deliver this news to his master. The guest-master grimaced, then quickly smoothed the expression over as he retreated out the door. Hanna moved to follow him, but Wolfhere said her name softly. She turned to see him open the lantern’s glass shutter and reach inside. He murmured a word under his breath, and the touch of his fingers to the dark wick ignited a flame. She started back, surprised, but he merely handed the lit lantern to her and waved her away. Outside, Hanna hoisted the lantern to light her way to the stables.

The guardsmen had already bedded down for the night on the straw in the loft, wrapped in their cloaks. They rousted easily enough. King’s Lions all, they were used to night alarms and swift risings for an early march, and they followed her back to the guest house without grumbling. They served the king and did not complain at the tasks given them. Such was the strength of the oaths they had sworn to Henry.

At Hanna’s entrance, the guest-master nervously shook his ring of keys and led the way into the back passage where two Lions stood guard at a locked door. Inside the chamber, Biscop Antonia sat, wide awake, in the room’s only chair while Brother Heribert sat on the edge of one of the two beds, fingering the silver Circle of Unity that hung on a chain at his chest. A carpet, thrown down as a courtesy, covered the plank floor; the windows were closed and shuttered, barred from the outside.

“Your Grace,” said Wolfhere. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, but it has become necessary to move you to different quarters.”

A stout woman of respectable age, Biscop Antonia wore her episcopal dignity with gentle authority and a benign expression. “No unbearable hardship afflicts the faithful,” she said mildly, “for is it not said in the Holy Verses that ‘thy daughters and sons did not succumb to the fangs of snakes?’”

Wolfhere did not reply but merely signed for her and the cleric to precede him out the door. Heribert rose and went out first. A quiet, attractive, neat young man, he had the soft, delicate white hands of an aristocrat born, one who had never put those hands to labor more taxing than prayer, the folding of vestments, and the occasional writing of a deed or royal capitulary. All the monks here in the hostel of St. Servitius had, like Hanna, work-roughened hands, but Heribert was a cleric whose duties were to pray, read, and act as scribe in the episcopal chancellery or the king’s chapel. With her hands folded quietly in front of her, Antonia followed after him, smiling and nodding first at Wolfhere and then at Hanna.

The single mild glance she gave Hanna made the young Eagle horribly uncomfortable. Biscop Antonia appeared as kindly and wise as an old grandmother who had lived her life in perfect harmony with the God of the Unities and been blessed with a prosperous family and many surviving grandchildren. But she was accused of base sorcery, such as even the church could not countenance, and Hanna herself had heard the biscop speak words of such searing contempt at the parley before the battle between King Henry and his sister Sabella that she knew Antonia’s kindly mien disguised something dark and unpleasant beneath.

Better not to be noticed by such folk. Or, as the saying went in Heart’s Rest, “Let well enough alone and turn over no rock unless you care to be knowing what’s underneath it.”

But after one glance, Antonia no longer appeared to notice Hanna. As the guards escorted them out of the building and down the stony path to the infirmary, she kept up a one-sided conversation with Wolfhere. “I have been reflecting on the words of St. Thecla, in her Letter to the Dariyans, when she speaks of the law of sin. Is not God’s law higher than the law of sin?”