Hanna lingered outside, staring up at the three great peaks so beautiful, so silent, so at peace in their vast strength, their sheer living force, that it seemed impossible to believe at this instant that three—brief—human lives had been extinguished in the shadow at their feet. What was it the bard had called them? Youngwife. Monk’s Ridge. Terror. She shaded her eyes against the rising sun and looked for the hawk, but no birds flew in the sky this fair morning.
She would return to Wendar, to the king’s progress, without seeing the city of Darre and the palace of the holy skopos. Without seeing, perhaps, a few elves or other strange creatures not of humankind. And yet, this also meant she would return to Liath sooner.
o;You were spared,” said Wolfhere, “because you have yet work to do in this world. What of this man, here?”
The Infirmarian shook his head. “God will decide if he is to live.”
Wolfhere rose and paced over the edge of the avalanche. Hanna followed him but kept back, not wanting to venture too close. She could see the bones of the infirmary underneath rock and rubble, mortared stones torn up by their roots, planks strewn like so much offal, a bed overturned but its rope base untouched, a three-legged stool with one leg broken, dried herbs once tied in bundles now scattered every which way on the torn grass.
“What of the prisoners?” asked Wolfhere when he turned back to the others.
The abbot himself came forward. He had been soothing the presbyter, who had already sent his servants to the stables to make ready to leave. “We cannot find their bodies,” he said. “This is most distressing. The rocks have buried them utterly. We will try to dig them out, but—”
“No matter.” Wolfhere surveyed the huge scar, the trail of the avalanche, that now scored the side of the ridge. Something shifted in the rubble and a few pebbles bounced down to land at his feet. He backed away nervously. “Search only if it is safe. The prisoners are lost to us now.”
“What will you do?” asked the abbot. “What of the two injured men? Brother Infirmarian says this poor man must not be moved any distance, and the other will not be able to walk for many weeks.”
“Can they remain here until they are healed?”
“Of course.” The abbot directed his monks to move the injured men away.
“Come, Hanna,” said Wolfhere. He walked back toward the stables, leaving the Lions to help.
“Why did you say it in that way? That the prisoners are ‘lost to us.’ Not that they’re dead.”
He looked at her curiously. “Do you think they are dead? Do you believe she lies there under the rocks? That someday, if the monks can dig the building out, they will find their two crushed bodies or their shattered bones?”
“Of course they must be dead. They were locked in the cell. How could they have escaped—” Seeing his expression, she broke off. “You don’t think they’re dead.”
“I do not. That was no natural storm.”
No natural storm. A blizzard blown up in the midst of mild summer weather. Strange unnatural creatures he had named galla walking abroad, stinking of the forge.
“Where will she go, Hanna? That is the question we must ask ourselves now. Where will she go? Who will shelter such as her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sabella might, if she could reach Sabella. But Sabella is herself in prison, so Wendar and Varre are closed to Antonia, for now.” He sighed sharply and stopped at the stable door, turning back to look up at the mountains, so calm, so clear, above them. “I should have known. I should have prepared for this. But I underestimated her power.”
“Where will we go?”
He considered. “Alas, I fear we must split up. One of us must continue on to Darre to lay the charges against Biscop Antonia before the skopos. That way we remain prepared, whatever Antonia means to do. One of us must return to Henry and warn him, and hope he believes us.” He smiled suddenly then, with a wry expression that made Hanna remember how much she liked him. “Better that one be you, Hanna. You will take four of the Lions, I the other two—when I journey back this way, I will pick up the two who remain here, if they survive.”
She had grown used to Wolfhere and now, abruptly, was afraid to travel without him. “How long will it take you? How soon will you return to Wendar?”
He shrugged. “I cannot say. I may be able to get back across the pass this autumn, but most likely I won’t be able to return until next summer. You must convince Henry, child.” He touched her, briefly, on her Eagle’s badge, newly made and still as bright as if the memory of Manfred’s death lit it. “You have earned this, Hanna. Do not think you are unequal to the task.” He went inside the stables.
Hanna lingered outside, staring up at the three great peaks so beautiful, so silent, so at peace in their vast strength, their sheer living force, that it seemed impossible to believe at this instant that three—brief—human lives had been extinguished in the shadow at their feet. What was it the bard had called them? Youngwife. Monk’s Ridge. Terror. She shaded her eyes against the rising sun and looked for the hawk, but no birds flew in the sky this fair morning.
She would return to Wendar, to the king’s progress, without seeing the city of Darre and the palace of the holy skopos. Without seeing, perhaps, a few elves or other strange creatures not of humankind. And yet, this also meant she would return to Liath sooner.
Thinking of Liath made her think of Hugh, though she did not want to think of Hugh. Beautiful Hugh. And thinking of Hugh made her remember what he had done, and so she thought of Ivar. Ai, Lady, where was Ivar now? Had he reached Quedlinhame safely? Did he like it there? Was he resigned to his fate? Or did he still fight against it?
III
THE CLOISTER
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