In the Ruins (Crown of Stars 6)

“Hush, you,” said his mother before turning her attention back to Ivar. “It’s true enough, Your Excellency. The lady came riding by on her progress one fine day last spring.”

“It was summer,” interrupted Erkanwulf’s sister. “I recall it because the borage was blooming and it was the same color as his eyes.”

“Tssh! Hush, girl! We heard enough about all that back then. I beg pardon, Your Excellency. My children will rattle on. The lady prayed with us, and said if we professed the Redemption she’d send us salt and spices in the autumn. But none came. Because of your disobedience, Erkanwulf!”

“Still,” said her daughter, with a dreamy smile, “I liked listening to what the lady’s cleric had to say.”

“Because of his blue eyes!” said the old crone with a wheezy laugh. “Ah, to be young!”

“I am surrounded by fools!” cried the chatelaine, but even her expression softened as she allowed herself a moment’s recollection. “Yet it’s true he was the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. More like an angel than a man, truly. And so soft-spoken, with a sorrow in his heart. Why, his good counsel softened even old Marius’ heart and he patched up his ancient quarrel with his cousin William that they’d been nursing for twenty years.”

“That was a miracle!” observed the crone wryly. “And he was handsome! Whsst!”

“You’re the fools!” cried Erkanwulf, for whom this recital had become, evidently and all at once, too much to bear. “There can only be one young lord fitting that description, and he’s no cleric. He’s the lady’s kept man, her concubine. She beds him every night, and parades him during the day like a holy saint wanting only a shower of light to transport him up to the Chamber of Light!”

“You’re just jealous because Nan wouldn’t roll you!” retorted his angry sister.

“At least she doesn’t bed every man who comes asking!”

Everyone began talking at once, as many laughing as scolding, but his mother walked right over to him and slapped him. “You’ll speak no such disrespectful words, young pup! Nor have you explained yourself yet! Steward put herself out for you because she liked you and thought well of you. Now look where it’s gotten her! Speak up! The rest of you shut your mouths and listen!”

No captain could have controlled his unruly band of soldiers more efficiently. They quieted, coughed, crossed arms, shushed children, scuffed feet in the dirt, and waited for Erkanwulf to start.

Ivar forestalled him by raising a hand. “I’ll speak.”

“Begging your pardon,” said the chatelaine hastily, as he’d known she would. He was a churchman, but in addition he sat mounted on a fine horse, and carried a sword.

“I escaped from Queen’s Grave with the aid of Erkanwulf, here, and his captain.”

“Hush!” muttered Erkanwulf. “I won’t have him getting in trouble.”

“He’ll be in trouble soon enough,” said Ivar.

“What trouble?” demanded the chatelaine. “Are you speaking of Captain Ulric? He’s a good man, local to these parts. I want you to make no trouble for him.”

“You’ll make no trouble for him if you’ll bide quietly once we’ve left and say no word of our passing. We rode to Princess Theophanu—”

“That’s one of the Wendish royals,” said one of the old fellows wisely, and gained a clout on the backside from the crone.

“Hush, you! Let the brother speak!”

“Do you live better under the rule of Lady Sabella than you did under Biscop Constance?” he asked them.

One by one they frowned and considered until the chatelaine said, grudgingly, “Biscop Constance ruled fairly. If she promised a thing, then it was delivered. The lady’s companions take what they wish when they want and tax us according to how the fit takes them.”

“Who rules in Wendar and Varre?” he asked.

“Sabella’s daughter rules in Varre,” they agreed, “together with her husband, the Wayland duke, the one with burned skin. Conrad the Black.”

“You’d accept the rule of Lady Tallia over that of the rightful regnant, King Henry?”

“What kind of kinship does Henry hold to us? It’s his elder sister Sabella who is born out of the Varren royal house. Not Henry. He was born to a Wendish mother, nothing to do with us. He never came here anyway. Once or twice to Autun. That’s all. It’s nothing to do with us.”

“I don’t like that heresy,” said the chatelaine.

Several others murmured agreement.

“The story of the Redemption sounded fair enough to me,” said Erkanwulf’s sister, then flushed. “And not just because of that cleric.”