The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Pretty enough for a graveyard,” said Ermanrich, observing the leafless orchard trees and the shriveled gardens of the most recent village they passed by. Folk came out of their houses to watch them pass, but said nothing. They whispered, gesturing to the banner that marked this party as Lady Sabella’s men-at-arms.

“They don’t like us,” whispered Hathumod.

“Or they don’t like Lady Sabella,” muttered Ivar. “Don’t despair.”

“Not yet, anyway,” said Ermanrich.

“Look,” said Sigfrid, pointing down the road. “That’s a palisade. It looks like a fort.”

As they came closer to a prominent ridgeline, they saw where the log wall closed in a narrow valley’s mouth. A makeshift camp with barracks, tents, and a small number of cottages lay outside the palisade beside a stream. A few men loitered there, staring—soldiers by the look of them. A woman came to the door of one of the cottages, pulling a tunic on over her grimy shift, and grinned as they marched past.

“Hey, there! Handsome!” It wasn’t clear whether she was talking to the prisoners or their escort. A man emerged beside her, slapped her on the bottom, and went out, whistling.

“What’s this?” he called to his fellows. “A new crop of sparrows to clap into the cage? A brace of lads and a boy! That’ll put the cats in among the pigeons!” He whooped.

A surly captain met them at the gates, herded them inside, and sent their escort packing without even offering them ale to wet their throats before setting off again into the chilly day on their way back to Autun.

“We were ten days on the road!” protested young Erkanwulf, who’d been given charge of the expedition by Captain Ulric. “Can’t we at least spend the night and dry our clothes before heading back?”

“Get!” snarled the captain. “No one’s allowed to bide here except those guards assigned to my command. That’s by order of Her Highness, Lady Sabella.”

Erkanwulf scowled, glanced at the prisoners, and with a shrug of frustration ordered his men to depart.

“That’s that, then,” said the captain, closing the gates so as to leave the four of them on one side and the captain and his guardsmen on the other.

“Hey!” called Ivar from inside the palisade, where they’d been abandoned. “What about us?”

The bar slammed into place. They were locked in. He turned. They stood at one end of a well-tended valley with several fields, a pasture dotted with sheep, an orchard, a stream, and a compound of buildings.

“This is a very old convent, an early foundation,” said Sigfrid, studying the layout of the buildings. “Do you see? It’s laid out in the old style.”

“What old style?” asked Ermanrich.

“Before the reforms of St. Benedicta and the elaborate plans of the Brothers of St. Galle created a new ideal for the construction and layout of monastic foundations. Quedlinhame and Hertford were laid out in the new style. This isn’t. Perhaps this was a villa in the time of the old Dariyan Empire, refurbished as a convent. But I think it’s more likely the architect built it in imitation of Dariyan villas. Not all the details are right. See how the drains—”

“Why would you build a villa to be a prison?” asked Hathumod.

“Hush,” said Ivar.

A very pretty girl approached them, eyeing them warily. “Who are you?” she demanded. “We got no message saying anyone was coming. What do you want?”

Ivar stepped forward. “We’ve been sent here by Lady Sabella to join your convent.”

“Have you?” She tossed her head; the movement made her scarf slip halfway back on her head. She had black curls so astonishingly lustrous that all three youths stared at them, then remembered that they were novices and she a holy nun, sworn to the service of God. She snorted, smiling at their discomfiture. Hathumod stared at her admiringly. “Come.”

The main compound was built as a square with an inner courtyard placed in the center. Guards stood watch at double doors, but the black-haired girl ignored them, opened one door, and ushered her charges into the suite of rooms beyond.

“Your Grace! Biscop Constance!” She had a piercing voice and was not afraid to use it. “We have new sheep. Do you think they’re spies for the usurper?”

A silver-haired woman sat at a writing desk, an older lady by the hunch of her shoulders and the color of her hair. Ivar looked around the chamber hoping to see the Biscop, whom he remembered well from the trial at Autun—young and glorious and handsome as befitted a daughter of the royal house. An elderly nun came into the room, stopped, and frowned.

“Sister Bona!” said the nun, chiding the girl who had led them in. “You must ask permission before you come charging in here—”

“Nay, let her be,” said the woman at the desk. Laboriously, favoring one shoulder and one leg, she turned. “Give me my staff, if you will.”

Ivar gasped.

Biscop Constance smiled wryly. She was still a handsome woman, vibrant with command, but she had aged thirty years. When she rose, when Bona leaped forward to help her, Ivar saw why. She could barely walk. She had sustained some kind of massive injuries, although he dared not ask how.