The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Have you fought against them?”

He grinned again but did not answer, instead calling for his horse in a language she did not recognize, and for the first time it occurred to Rosvita that Sergeant Bysantius, like her, spoke Arethousan without the pure accent that the priest had scorned her for lacking.

2

IN early afternoon the Garters dumped Ivar out of the wagon beside the appointed meeting place, but it was only after they had rumbled away and their voices had faded into the distance that a young man stepped out from behind the massive oak tree that dominated the clearing. He was slender, with pale hair, and carried a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

“You’re Brother Ivar,” the soldier said. “I recognize you.”

Ivar spat out the tiny scroll concealed in his mouth, then groaned as he staggered, trying to catch his balance, and sat down hard instead. His limbs still weren’t working right. “How can you recognize me? I don’t know you.”

“It’s the red hair. I was there when you were brought by the prior of Hersford Monastery to stand before Duchess Sabella for judgment.”

“Ah.” The memory of that humiliating day still made him hot with anger. The other man—no older than himself—squatted beside him. Ivar squinted at him, finding that his eyes hurt and his back ached and that he had a headache starting in like a mallet trying to pound its way out of his skull. “I don’t recognize you.”

“I’m called Erkanwulf. I belong to Captain Ulric’s troop. We served Biscop Constance, and now—” Here his tone crept lower, ragged with disgust. “—now we serve Lady Sabella, whether we will it or no.”

“Had you a choice in the matter?”

“Captain Ulric told us we’d a choice whether to stick with him or go back to our homes. He said we had a chance to bide our time and wait for the right moment to restore Biscop Constance. He said if we rebelled against Lady Sabella now, we’d be killed.”

“So he chose to be prudent.”

Erkanwulf shrugged. “That’s one way to put it. We could have ridden to Osterburg. That’s where they say Princess Theophanu has gone to ground. She’s made herself duchess of Saony what with her father gone south and her sister and brother lost in the east.”

“Why didn’t you do that?”

“Captain Ulric said he wanted us to stick close by the biscop, so that we might keep an eye on her, in her prison. Make sure she remains safe. Now that the king has abandoned us for the foreigners in the south, there’s no one else to aid her. Here, now, let’s get you out of the sun.”

He helped Ivar to his feet and led him to the shelter of the little chapel, which was no more than a curved stone wall roofed with thatch, open on one side to the air. The remains of a larger structure lay half buried in the earth around it. Inside the chapel a log had been split and each half planed smooth of splinters to make a bench; Ivar collapsed gratefully onto one of these seats. The altar consisted of little more than a mighty stump greater even than that of the remaining oak giant that dominated the clearing. A big iron ring affixed to an iron stake had been driven into the center of the stump, and spring flowers woven into a wreath garlanded the ring. A wooden tray had been set on the stump, laden with an offering of dried figs, nuts, and a pungent cheese that made Ivar’s headache worse.

He was trying to remember what had happened to Sapientia and Ekkehard, but they had vanished with the rest of Prince Bayan’s army that awful night, and he and his companions had found themselves adrift and lost, three years of traveling swept away in a single night punctuated by blue fire.

“Eat something,” said Erkanwulf, bringing him the tray. “They said you might feel poorly. We can stay a night here, mayhap, but we’ll have to move swiftly if we want to get out of Arconia before Lady Sabella’s loyal soldiers wonder if there’s anything amiss. If we can cross into Fesse, we should be safer, but, even so, Sabella’s people have been growing bold.”

“Bold?”

“Duke Conrad pushes into Salia. There’s a civil war, so they say, one lord fighting the next and the only heir a girl. Isn’t it outrageous? A Salian princess can’t inherit the throne, only be married to the man who will sit there.”

Ivar grunted to show he agreed, but he had to pee, and he was feeling distinctly queasy with that powerful stink of goat cheese right beneath his nose, yet he wasn’t sure he had the strength to get up off the log bench.

“Do we have horses?” he asked finally. “Or can you ride?”

“I can ride!” Erkanwulf slapped the tray down beside Ivar and moved away, his shoulders tense, by which Ivar deduced muddily that he had offended him. “My lord.” He walked out into the clearing, quiver shifting on his back, and fastidiously wiped off the tiny scroll before tucking it into his belt pouch. Now he didn’t need Ivar at all.

Who did, after all? Not even and not especially his own father, who had given him to the church as a punishment, knowing that Ivar had far different hopes and dreams, which by now had disintegrated into ashes and dust.

It was all too much. He retched, but there was nothing more than bile in his stomach, and after a few heaves he just sat there shaking and wishing he had actually died on that cart. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and caught a finger on the ring Baldwin had slipped on his finger—a fine piece of lapis lazuli simply set in a plain silver band. Ai, God! The token reminded him of Baldwin’s stricken face; he had to survive if only to let Baldwin know he wasn’t dead. It wasn’t fair to allow Baldwin to go on grieving over a man who was still living.

Yet why did living have to entail so much misery?

For some reason he wondered where Hanna was, or if she were still alive, and the thought of her made him begin to cry, a sniveling, choking whine that he hated although he couldn’t stop because his stomach was all cramped and the mallet in his head kept whacking away in time to the pulse of his heart. Just before he wet himself, he managed to push up and reel, stumbling, to the edge of the forest and there relieve the pressure. He shuffled back to the bench and curled up beside the stump, praying for oblivion.

Lady Fortune, or the saint to whom the chapel was dedicated, had mercy on him. He slept hard, without dreams, and woke a moment later although by now it was dusk. An owl hooted. He recognized that sound as the one that had startled him awake.

His headache was gone and although his mouth was dry and had a foul taste, he could stand without trouble even if every joint felt as stiff as if he needed a good greasing.

“Erkanwulf?” he croaked. “Ho, there! Erkanwulf?”