Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

“It was not truly your choice, Hanna. If you had not chosen, then ten more would have died. At least you saved ten where you could. You must forgive yourself. I pray you.” He had tears on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Brother.”

He kissed her on the forehead as a benediction. He was a cleric, after all, able to plead with God on behalf of those who have repented and those who suffer although they are innocent.

From here they could see the flickering light cast by the fire although not the fire itself, tucked away within the stone walls of the chapel. One of the soldiers laughed, another Stephen, an older man who had ridden for years with Lady Bertha. She knew all their laughs now, their favorite swear words and curses; she knew Ruoda’s confident way with the dogs and Gerwita’s fear of the big boarhound called Mercy, Jerome’s shy way of stammering when he had to speak with more than two people paying attention to him and the dry sound of Jehan’s constant nagging cough. She knew each silhouette, such as the one ambling along a fallen length of wall as aimlessly as a sheep.

“Strange,” she said.

“What is strange?”

“I never think to count Princess Sapientia, although surely she must be counted before all others in our party. Even Lady Bertha forgot to mention her when those farmers refused to let us pass.”

He turned to look where she looked. Sister Petra caught up with her charge and herded her back toward the safety of the chapel and the fire.

“What will become of her?” Hanna asked.

Fortunatus only shook his head, but she could not tell whether the gesture meant “I do not know” or “may God have mercy” or “all hope for her is lost.”

A shout rang out of the twilight. They turned to see five shadowy figures and the three dogs striding along the road that led from the town. The tautness of those shoulders and the cant of those heads told of trouble.

Hanna ran to meet them, but Lady Bertha brushed past her and hurried on toward the camp with the three soldiers. Sister Rosvita halted, took hold of Fortunatus’ arm, and bent to catch her breath.

“Whh!” She gripped her side as at a spasm, but when she saw Sister Petra shepherding Princess Sapientia within the walls of their makeshift fort, she frowned. “Best hurry. What of the men who went to the well?”

Without waiting for their answer she climbed on, and Hanna and Fortunatus followed, looking at each other. There was nothing to say. As they picked their way through the fallen remains of the portico, they heard Lady Bertha speaking.

“Bring the horses up. We’ll need a guard on them all night. I want those men sent to fetch water called in, and a double sentry all night.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Hanna.

From this angle the slope of the hill hid the town. It was by now too dark to see the fields as anything distinct, only alternating shades of gray in patches that ended abruptly in the darker line of trees.

“The orchard trees were chopped down, not blown down,” Rosvita said, still wheezing. “Fresh sawdust from the chopping, scattered everywhere. The mist hid the pockets of smoke. This fire and destruction is recent. The town might have been attacked yesterday.”

“God have mercy,” murmured Fortunatus, drawing the circle at his chest.

“Were there corpses?” Hanna asked. “Any survivors?”

“We did not search closely. If an enemy waits in the forest, they know we’re here. Morning will be soon enough.”

A whistle carried on the breeze, a silky, twisting tune Hanna had never heard before. Soldiers came alert. Swords were drawn and arrows measured against bowstrings. A rank of spears lowered. Yet the dogs barked in greeting not in challenge. The figure who emerged out of the ruins carried two covered buckets, one sloshing with water and the other empty. Brother Breschius set his buckets down beside the painted cart and turned, seeking first one face then another.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You found the well?” asked Lady Bertha.

“I did. Set somewhat back where the hill is steep. I came through Augensburg many years ago. I recalled it because of a particular …” He shook his head. “What is it?”

“Laurent and Tomas went before you. Did you see them there?”

“No sign of them. Did they know where to look? They might be lost in the ruins.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“What is it?” he asked again.

When they told him, he rubbed his clean-shaven chin with the stump of his right arm as if he had momentarily forgotten that he lacked the hand.