Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

Villam had not heard him, but Rosvita did. “If Ironhead commands the loyalty of a sorcerer, who knows what he may attempt. Certainly Ironhead does not have the reputation of an honorable man. I advise that you proceed cautiously, Your Majesty”

o;How many wait for us in Novomo?” The catalog of Ironhead’s sins had made Henry impatient. “Who else will march behind our banners? What number of milites and horsemen may we expect?”

“The wars have taken a toll on us, Your Majesty. Perhaps seven hundred.”

They rode on for a while in silence. The ring of harness serenaded them. The muted rumble of wagon wheels behind them sounded like distant thunder, but the sky remained cloudless, a hard blue shell.

“Shall we gather more support, Your Majesty?” asked Lavinia finally, as if she could bear the silence no longer.

“Nay,” said Adelheid fiercely, “let us strike hard and immediately at Ironhead, before Lord John has time to respond and build up his army.” But as she spoke, she looked toward her husband. It was his army, after all.

Henry stared ahead. They had come within sight of Novomo, its walls and towers rising where the land opened into a fine landscape of rolling hills and extensively farmed lands, fields cut by ranks upon ranks of orchards and vineyards. They had come down far enough that, looking north, Rosvita could again see the tips of the mountains touching the heavens, distant and cold.

Beyond Novomo the road ran south to the heart of Aosta. Some trick of perspective allowed her to see a distant, flat-topped hill studded with dark shapes that she first took for sheep. With a shudder of misgiving, she recognized the hilltop of standing stones. Through those stones she and Adelheid and Theophanu and the pitiful remnant of their armies had staggered over a year ago, in the spring, propelled to safety by Hugh’s magic. A spike of dread crippled her heart. Certainly they had escaped John Ironhead’s army, but they had not yet escaped the full consequences of letting a man accused of sorcery harness a most dangerous magic, one long ago condemned by the church, to help them. She could not erase from her mind’s eye the sight of the daimone Hugh had bound. She still saw clearly its writhing fury, heard the resonant bass hammer of its voice, felt the damning chill that boiled off the threads of hard light that made up its body, if the creatures known as daimones even had true bodies.

She had seen what the others had not, and yet she had acquiesced. She knew in her heart that decision would come back to haunt them all.

“A well-fitted army with horses and stout soldiers can reach Darre in ten days,” said Lavinia as they approached the gates of Novomo.

In Darre lay the key to the imperial throne that Henry had for so long dreamed of possessing.

“God march with us,” said Henry. “Adelheid is correct. We must not wait. Let us feast this night in your hall. In the morning, we will march south.”

It seemed the entire populace of Novomo turned out to greet them, running out to stand alongside the road or waiting in the narrow streets and leaning out of the windows in their crowded houses inside Novomo’s walls. Their cries and cheers rang to the heavens. When they came to the steps of Lavinia’s palace, fully two dozen noblemen and -women laid their swords at Adelheid’s and Henry’s feet.

The feast that night had the slightly frenzied spirit of a man coming down with a fever, punctuated at intervals by the distant rumble of thunder, so muted that Rosvita kept thinking she heard wagons passing by on the streets outside.

Some hours before dawn, rain broke over the town, and in the morning the army began its march south beneath a steady, light rain. God was smiling on Aosta again.

Five days’ march south they met outriders ranging through low hills, looking for them. Light cavalry chased off these scouts, but by midday the road brought them to a fine vantage point and here, arrayed in battle order, they could see from the ridgetop down onto the central plain that stretched away south until it was lost in a heat haze.

Ironhead was waiting for them. His army lay encamped across the road, its flanks stretching well out to either side, with a makeshift palisade thrown up before his lines. Ironhead had wasted no time, and it was obvious that he had assembled a larger army than Henry’s, fully two thousand mounted men or more to judge by the tents and banners, herds of horses, and horde of wagons.

“He must have had word we were coming,” said Villam. “A rider could have left Novomo and changed off horses to get to him in three days, but it seems impossible to me that he could have acted so quickly and brought his army five days’ march north from Darre in so short a time.”

“Unless he has one among his retinue who has the Eagle’s sight,” said Henry softly, glancing at Hathui, who rode at his right hand.

Villam had not heard him, but Rosvita did. “If Ironhead commands the loyalty of a sorcerer, who knows what he may attempt. Certainly Ironhead does not have the reputation of an honorable man. I advise that you proceed cautiously, Your Majesty”

“So I will.”

It was quite warm already and bid fair to become a fiercely hot day despite that they were eight days short of the summer solstice. Henry’s brow had a sheen of sweat. Absently, he mopped his brow with a cloth and handed it to one of his stewards, come up beside him. Three captains waited at his back, one carrying the king’s shield, one his helmet, and one the holy spear of St. Perpetua, sign of God’s favor.

“Where is the queen?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“She comes now, my lord king,” said Hathui.

In the last five days Adelheid had grown increasingly clumsy with pregnancy. She looked ready to burst, and could only mount and dismount with difficulty, aided by a half-dozen servants. But ride she did.

“What is this?” she asked as the lines parted to let her through with her ladies and servingwomen riding in her train. Rosvita reined her mule aside to give place to the queen. “Ah! Ironhead has come to greet us.”

“It seems the issue is to be decided sooner rather than later,” said Henry.

Adelheid had a soldier’s eye. She assessed the length and depth of Ironhead’s force, and studied the banners. “He has more mercenaries than loyal troops. Might they be bribed to desert him?”

“It might be,” said Villam, “but Ironhead will have thought of that himself, if he’s as wily as they say.”

Henry examined Adelheid. The heat had not withered him; he sat as straight as a young man, unbowed by the aches and pains of advancing age that Rosvita felt every day now that she, like the king, was forty-two—or was it forty-four?—years old. It was hard to keep track and not really important.