“But she is free of Lady Sabella’s treachery! If those Eika meant to kill her, they would already have done so.”
“They might plan to roast her alive and eat her!”
Ivar’s voice had risen. The villagers following in their wake looked at him with alarm and began to mutter among themselves. Children wept, and the dogs set to barking, which got the sheep restless. The herd dog broke into action. In the distance, unseen goats blatted, and a chorus of chickens serenaded them as monks rushed out of cloister and workshops to greet them.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Ivar,” said Baldwin in such a reproving tone that Ivar blushed.
Ratbold called over a young lay brother and told him to lead the horses to the smith’s workshop. No sooner had he stopped to speak to one man but a dozen more swarmed around him, asking advice and offering grievances and problems. In this babble and flood Ivar got washed away from the prior and found himself in an eddy as the newcomers met and mingled with those who had stayed behind. Baldwin tugged on his arm, and he followed him unresisting past the inner fence where they, as noble churchmen, needed no permission to enter.
On the steps of the church a young nobleman dressed in layman’s clothing watched the commotion. Ivar squinted and, with a shock, recognized that face. Impossible. He walked over. As soon as he moved in that direction, the youth’s gaze transferred smoothly to examine him with the kind of caution kept by a traveler who must size up every encounter for its degree of risk. He held his ground, moving only to say something Ivar could not hear, and as Ivar reached the steps a pair of young men came from the church to join him. One, like the youth, was a lord similar in station to Ivar himself: the younger son of a minor house. He knew his measure as he knew himself. But the look of the other man made him stop in his tracks and stare as a deep chill knifed into the pit of his stomach.
This grim fellow was a Quman, one of the killers who had almost murdered him and his friends. A godless heathen.
Yet this young man stood as easily behind the noble youth as would a trusted retainer. The Quman was half a head shorter than his companions, and he was broader across the shoulders and chest without being stout. He scrutinized Ivar, exchanged a glance with the second Wendish lord, and made no more threatening move than flexing his fingers. His knuckles cracked.
“Who are you?” asked the noble youth with the barest twist of arrogance. He, too, was measuring.
“You’re Lord Berthold, son of Villam,” said Ivar.
“So I am. I don’t know you.”
“No reason you should. Last time I saw you, you were lying asleep under the hill on heaps of treasure.”
ch had changed, except the pleasant collection of buildings that met his eye once he passed through the gate: the cloister and chapel ringed by the inner fence, the layman’s barracks, a byre for the milk cow, the henhouse and beehives, the lush ranks of the orchard and the orderly gardens fenced with wire to keep out rabbits. Folk had set up tents around the fruit trees. A dozen men and women were digging up new ground to expand the gardens. A herd of sheep grazed beyond the vegetable garden, tended by a score of children. It was an eerie sight to observe those somber shepherds, so quiet they were, unlike lively children who might be expected to romp a little and play. A dog roamed at the edge of the herd, and it gazed at the newcomers for a measure and, apparently recognizing the monks, went back to its guard.
Ivar grabbed the prior’s sleeve.
“Prior Ratbold, I beg you. We need the services of your smith. Provisions, if you have them. We must leave at dawn tomorrow. Is there a path through the woods that might allow us to reach Kassel before that army does?”
Ratbold looked at him and, most oddly, smiled. Ivar moved a half step away because the expression made him so uneasy. This was not the scolding, irritable man who had herded them to Autun and made sure to express his disgust with their heresy every league of the way.
“We were wrong about the lion,” Ratbold said.
Ivar shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I told you there was a lion!” said Baldwin.
“Oh. Ah.” Ivar knew his face was red. He could feel the heat. “Yes, the lion.”
“Up there where the holy man lived,” said Prior Ratbold. “Brother Fidelis. We were wrong about the lion, and about so much else. Will you forgive us? It was wrong to send you to Autun. After all, perhaps it was the right thing, since you brought the blessings of the phoenix to Varre. Surely God had a hand, through you, in setting Biscop Constance free.”
“She’s a prisoner of the Eika!”
“But she is free of Lady Sabella’s treachery! If those Eika meant to kill her, they would already have done so.”
“They might plan to roast her alive and eat her!”
Ivar’s voice had risen. The villagers following in their wake looked at him with alarm and began to mutter among themselves. Children wept, and the dogs set to barking, which got the sheep restless. The herd dog broke into action. In the distance, unseen goats blatted, and a chorus of chickens serenaded them as monks rushed out of cloister and workshops to greet them.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Ivar,” said Baldwin in such a reproving tone that Ivar blushed.
Ratbold called over a young lay brother and told him to lead the horses to the smith’s workshop. No sooner had he stopped to speak to one man but a dozen more swarmed around him, asking advice and offering grievances and problems. In this babble and flood Ivar got washed away from the prior and found himself in an eddy as the newcomers met and mingled with those who had stayed behind. Baldwin tugged on his arm, and he followed him unresisting past the inner fence where they, as noble churchmen, needed no permission to enter.
On the steps of the church a young nobleman dressed in layman’s clothing watched the commotion. Ivar squinted and, with a shock, recognized that face. Impossible. He walked over. As soon as he moved in that direction, the youth’s gaze transferred smoothly to examine him with the kind of caution kept by a traveler who must size up every encounter for its degree of risk. He held his ground, moving only to say something Ivar could not hear, and as Ivar reached the steps a pair of young men came from the church to join him. One, like the youth, was a lord similar in station to Ivar himself: the younger son of a minor house. He knew his measure as he knew himself. But the look of the other man made him stop in his tracks and stare as a deep chill knifed into the pit of his stomach.
This grim fellow was a Quman, one of the killers who had almost murdered him and his friends. A godless heathen.
Yet this young man stood as easily behind the noble youth as would a trusted retainer. The Quman was half a head shorter than his companions, and he was broader across the shoulders and chest without being stout. He scrutinized Ivar, exchanged a glance with the second Wendish lord, and made no more threatening move than flexing his fingers. His knuckles cracked.