Berthold lifted his chin as if he’d been rocked back by a blow. “How came you to see this?” he demanded imperiously. “Tell me!”
“Just up here, by the crown up on the hill here. But the monks, and Father Ortulfus, did not believe our story and sent us as prisoners to Autun. It’s a long story. I could as well ask you, how came you here, and at this time?”
“Who are you?”
“Ivar, son of Count Harl of the North Mark.”
“God save us! Sister Rosvita’s young half brother! Can it be?”
“You know Rosvita?”
“I was one of the noble youths on the king’s progress. She taught me letters.” Berthold’s gaze turned intent as he stared at Ivar. His voice trembled. “What news of her? Everything is all gone tumbling. All the months have fallen like so many sticks scattering. I scarcely know where I am or what has befallen us. So many are lost, and only the remnants found.” Ivar had a difficult time following this chatter, and anyway, Lord Berthold had already switched streams, turning to the Quman youth. “Where is Brother Heribert?”
“Still at the well, he looks, my lord,” said the man in accented but comprehensible Wendish. “The old wolf, at the fire-worker’s hearth, he waits. At the smith.” He considered the word and said it again. “The smith. Of horses, the holy men keep none.”
“Maybe we should go on, on foot,” said the second lord, and the other two looked at him as if he had suggested they walk on their hands to get where they were going. Then they all laughed. Such a bond grew out of shared adversity. It could not be woven on any other loom.
“Where have you come from? Where are you going?”
“Strangely,” said Berthold lightly, “we ride north from Aosta, which is where we found ourselves.” His expression darkened, and he clenched his jaw and, with an effort, made himself smile, although it gave him a bitter edge. “We’re going to Kassel. We hear that all the dukes and ladies and princes become king ride that way. We have news, and edicts, and many things to tell, and we have come to much trouble to get here in order to tell them.”
Ivar felt silenced by this passionate, angry speech. As the son of a count, he was this man’s peer, certainly, although of course Villam’s son must outrank the child of a borderland count who rarely attended court to bolster his position. He knew himself an outsider, judged and found wanting.
“Tell me again,” said Berthold after a pause, but his stare was fierce and his tone threatening. “Tell me again how you came to see us sleeping under the hill. How many of us were there? Just me and Jonas, or more?”
Ivar glanced back. Baldwin was gone, and a quick survey of the area revealed no perfect blond head.
“The tale may have to wait until another day. My companion and I are riding to Kassel also. Our message is urgent. There’s an Eika army just passed this way. They’re taking the Hellweg, marching east. They’ve taken both Biscop Constance and Father Ortulfus prisoner. Lady Sabella and Duke Conrad left Autun before the Eika attack came, so they don’t know the Eika are moving up behind them.”
“With Prince Sanglant ahead and the Eika behind, they will be crushed,” mused Berthold, but Ivar could not tell if the prospect pleased or displeased him. “Jonas, I have a fancy to walk up the hill to the stone crown, and see for ourselves.”
“Must we, my lord?” Jonas had a pleasant face a little hollowed from privation. He was slender in the way of people who are working hard without eating quite enough, yet he had the height common to noble lords. “Let us not, I beg you.”
“Are you afraid?”
“I am just so weary.” He looked away. “Why take the chance?” he said in a low voice. “Best let them rest.”
“They might sleep there still! They might!”
“Seven in all,” said Ivar.
Berthold jumped down the steps and grabbed Ivar’s wrist. “Seven? Is that how many you saw?”
“Seven sleepers.” He shook his arm free. “You are two. Where are the other five?”
“Lost!” groaned Jonas.
Berthold said nothing. His grimace told a tale that Ivar wasn’t sure he cared to hear spoken out loud.
Behind, the monks and lay brothers scurried here and there within the grounds enclosed by the palisade, trying to get all the refugees settled for the night. Ivar smelled rain, but he didn’t hear its patter in the nearby trees. The wind skated gently past them, still blowing out of the east-northeast. It was getting dark. They had reached Hersford Monastery just in time.
Like a flash of lightning, Baldwin’s pale hair showed up within the crowd. Ivar raised a hand to hail him.
Jonas said, “Who’s that?”
Baldwin strode up, rubbing at his beard. “They just won’t listen to me! There’s another man at the smithy with a dozen horses needing shoeing. I told him we were in haste, that we ride with an urgent message, but he said—” He took a second look at the men waiting on the steps, and choked, indicating the Quman. “That’s a Quman, Ivar! I thought we’d escaped them!”
Even the Quman savage was staring at Baldwin with the look of a young bull stunned by a sledge blow between the eyes. Lord Berthold’s eyes had gone quite round.