The man lying on his back on the litter was covered from feet to hips with a thin blanket. Otherwise, he was naked from the waist up, his left hand resting on a taut belly and his right arm, slightly elevated on a rolled-up blanket pressed along his side, ending in a stump at the wrist. He had good shoulders, and pale, lovely, rose-blushed skin. His eyes were closed, but in the manner of a person who, although awake, prefers to shut out the truth. His golden hair had been washed and combed, and it gleamed when they passed out of the shadow and into that last spill of sunlight lancing through the westward-facing walkway.
“Can I have that one?” Sorgatani said with a ragged laugh.
Ai, God! Hugh.
“Is there any man handsomer than you?” Hanna whispered.
“There cannot be,” murmured Sorgatani, lips parted, leaning until her face almost brushed the beads as the monks moved past.
“He is dangerous, that one. Unforgiving, unkind, arrogant, vain, proud, obsessed, and cruel. Forget him, Sorgatani.”
“But he’s so beautiful. I am Kerayit, daughter of the Horse people. I can break the most vicious-tempered stallion that walks Earth. It is in my blood and my breeding and my training. I do not fear him.”
The monks passed out of sight. Ivar shook Baldwin’s hand free, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him away from the wagon, and it seemed a trick of the air that she could hear Ivar’s answers but not Baldwin’s questions as they moved away.
“Yes, that’s right, they all survived. Yes, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, and Hathumod. They’re all here with Biscop Constance. In the guesthouse, I think. Come, I’ll take you to them; that’s where you belong. No. No. I’m not going to stay in the church. I’m going to become a messenger, just like you, for the phoenix, only not in the church. It’s for the best, Baldwin. Trust me.”
Sorgatani turned away from the beads to grip Hanna’s hands with both of her own, although the gesture caused tears to start up as her lovely face was ripped with desperation and pain. “You are still the King’s Eagle, Hanna. And my luck. That is what I ask of you. Let him become my pura, and I can go back to my tribe knowing I will not be alone.”
4
GRIEF strikes each body in a different way. For the longest time Liath drifted in a stupor, clutching the cold hand, vainly trying to heat the corpse and ignite the spark of life that no longer burned within. Folk whispered around her, gliding in and out of view, but their motions were meaningless and random. In no way did they move with the sure predictable paces of the stars. Yet the sun and the moon and the canopy of heaven, raised above us, have no liberty to govern themselves. They are subject to the law; they do what they are ordered to do, and nothing else.
How much easier, then, to see the fate that awaits you and brace yourself. Wasn’t it better to know the path in advance than to stumble like this?
Ai, God! Ai, God!
The child was screaming. She heard it now, and it occurred to her that these hysterics had been going on for some time.
She had to let go of the hand, and she feared by doing so she would lose him forever, but she had to let go.
There.
lushed and turned her attention to Baldwin, who was now gesticulating wildly as he related some tale to Ivar that Ivar did not, in fact, appear very interested in hearing. Ivar kept staring at the wagon, shifting his feet, and tugging on his hair. He was standing off at an angle and had not noticed the shift in the concealing beads.
Well. It was no surprise that Sorgatani would notice Lord Baldwin. True enough, he was breathtaking of feature, but it seemed to her as she watched him talking that there was something a little vacant about that pretty face.
“Is he crippled or injured in some way?” Sorgatani asked breathlessly. “Has he been wounded? Ah, look! His hand has been cut off. Just like Breschius! Maybe it’s a sign.” Leaning on Hanna, she tightened her fingers as folk do when they grasp the rope that will save them from drowning. “What do you think?”
Sorgatani wasn’t looking at Baldwin and Ivar. She was looking beyond them where the fading light poured its golden aura over a portion of the fountain and the paved pathway. A pair of sturdy lay brothers was carrying a man on a litter out of the monks’ quarters. They cut along one of the diagonal paths, bringing them close by the wagon. They were on their way, perhaps, to the infirmary. They weren’t in any hurry. The presence of the foreign wagon seemed of no interest to them at all, nor did they show much interest in their patient. They kept pausing between strides to look toward the church, although it wasn’t clear what they hoped to see there.
The man lying on his back on the litter was covered from feet to hips with a thin blanket. Otherwise, he was naked from the waist up, his left hand resting on a taut belly and his right arm, slightly elevated on a rolled-up blanket pressed along his side, ending in a stump at the wrist. He had good shoulders, and pale, lovely, rose-blushed skin. His eyes were closed, but in the manner of a person who, although awake, prefers to shut out the truth. His golden hair had been washed and combed, and it gleamed when they passed out of the shadow and into that last spill of sunlight lancing through the westward-facing walkway.
“Can I have that one?” Sorgatani said with a ragged laugh.
Ai, God! Hugh.
“Is there any man handsomer than you?” Hanna whispered.
“There cannot be,” murmured Sorgatani, lips parted, leaning until her face almost brushed the beads as the monks moved past.
“He is dangerous, that one. Unforgiving, unkind, arrogant, vain, proud, obsessed, and cruel. Forget him, Sorgatani.”
“But he’s so beautiful. I am Kerayit, daughter of the Horse people. I can break the most vicious-tempered stallion that walks Earth. It is in my blood and my breeding and my training. I do not fear him.”
The monks passed out of sight. Ivar shook Baldwin’s hand free, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him away from the wagon, and it seemed a trick of the air that she could hear Ivar’s answers but not Baldwin’s questions as they moved away.
“Yes, that’s right, they all survived. Yes, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, and Hathumod. They’re all here with Biscop Constance. In the guesthouse, I think. Come, I’ll take you to them; that’s where you belong. No. No. I’m not going to stay in the church. I’m going to become a messenger, just like you, for the phoenix, only not in the church. It’s for the best, Baldwin. Trust me.”