Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

The scouts fell into position, two at the rear and one ranging, and the sergeant urged his horse forward to catch up with the main group. It hadn’t rained recently, so the road had a good firm snap under the horses’ hooves. Clouds scudded on a wind blowing out of the northwest. The road curled around stubborn coppices tended by woodsmen and the occasional ash swale, but at length they mounted to higher ground. A meadow lying upslope of a well-worked coppice of hornbeam and oak opened with an unexpected vista of the Rhowne River Valley and its rich holdings, the ferry crossing, and the distant walls and cathedral tower of Autun.

The ferryman’s compound was burning. Flames leaped, and smoke streamed into the heavens.

The sergeant stared, face white. “Look!” he said hoarsely, pointing toward the river.

Skimming low, dragons flew over the water, their eyes high and black in gleaming gold-and-orange heads and their teeth white and sharp, close to the water.

o;Lord Geoffrey’s boys?” Constance pressed.

The steward spoke in a forcibly cheerful voice. “In good health, together with Conrad’s newborn, the little lad we all thought would perish but is marvelous robust and thriving, God be praised. It was a miracle.”

“A miracle?” asked Constance sharply. “Why do you say so?”

“Him all blue and not breathing when he was born? The midwife fled, she was so fearful of being punished, because that one—Queen Tallia, that is, God bless her—throws weak whelps. Only the eldest girl lived out of the other three she bore. Yet I don’t think the midwife was at fault.”

“It’s rare that a child born blue and not breathing can be described as robust,” remarked Constance. “What happened to make you say it was a miracle?”

“His still body was dropped right in front of the altar. Accidentally, I mean. That man caught him, the bastard born—”

“Sanglant?”

“Nay, Your Grace. The one from Lavas.”

“Ah!” Constance nodded. “Go on.”

“Everyone said that any child dropped before the altar must be destined for the church, so God must have spared him for Her service and Her greater glory.”

“Truth rises with the phoenix,” said Baldwin.

The steward startled, like a rabbit spotting a hawk, and she began to weep.

“Best we ride on,” said the sergeant. “No use waiting here. Lady Sabella was very strong with her direction: Bring the biscop to me.”

He called to his soldiers, and they finished their mugs of drink and wiped their mouths and hurried back to pick up the chair. They hauled Constance away to a chamber in the palace where she was sequestered. Her clerics followed her, and by the time they had settled themselves for the night, they discovered that they had only closemouthed soldiers as their keepers and no servants to ask for the local gossip.

They rode out of Autun the next morning. Many folk waited along the streets to watch as they rode past, and many of these made a sign with their hands, thumb curled around bent middle and little fingers with the other two fingers outstretched like horns on the head of an animal.

“Truth rises with the phoenix,” they called. Some strewed flowers in front of Baldwin’s horse, while others wept and prostrated themselves as the wagon in which Constance rode rumbled past.

Beyond Autun their party rode to the ferry, where they waited half the morning as they were borne across in stages. The clouds were high today and the light almost made Ivar squint.

“Look there,” he said, nudging Ermanrich. “Downstream. Is that smoke?”

The second cart arrived on the eastern shore with the last of the escort. The sergeant had also seen the smoke, which rose several leagues away beyond woodland and fields. He got his men moving eastward along the road but lingered with the rear guard as Constance’s wagon trundled out. Ivar hung back as the other clerics rode off in attendance on the wagon. The smoke had a chary black undercoating to it, and it boiled.

“I don’t like the look of that,” said the sergeant to his trio of scouts. “Someone’s good stable is burning down, that’s what I think.”

“Bandits?” Ivar asked, and the sergeant looked at him in surprise.

“Weren’t you up riding with the others?”

“I like to keep my eye out, too.”

This sergeant was a homely fellow, thick-shouldered, thick-necked, and with a habit of speaking slowly and simply that might make a person think him thick-witted. He nodded, squinching his eyes as he studied Ivar with a frown. “Fair enough. I don’t like the look of that. Let’s move on.”

The scouts fell into position, two at the rear and one ranging, and the sergeant urged his horse forward to catch up with the main group. It hadn’t rained recently, so the road had a good firm snap under the horses’ hooves. Clouds scudded on a wind blowing out of the northwest. The road curled around stubborn coppices tended by woodsmen and the occasional ash swale, but at length they mounted to higher ground. A meadow lying upslope of a well-worked coppice of hornbeam and oak opened with an unexpected vista of the Rhowne River Valley and its rich holdings, the ferry crossing, and the distant walls and cathedral tower of Autun.

The ferryman’s compound was burning. Flames leaped, and smoke streamed into the heavens.