“What does he mean?” demanded Ivar as he released the old man’s arm.
“I mean a mathematicus is coming. We must flee.”
“Without the horses?” Jonas asked.
“My lord.” The Eagle addressed Lord Berthold. “We must take with us everything that will reveal we were here lest we endanger these good and holy men. We must go at once.”
“Liath is a mathematicus,” said Ivar boldly, trying to get the man’s attention. The smoke had clouded his brain; he could not remember the old Eagle’s name.
“Very well,” said Berthold. “At once. Odei. Jonas. Get our things.” They raced off. “We need Brother Heribert, and Berda,” he added to the Eagle.
“I’ll fetch the good brother,” said the old man.
“I’ll meet you by the orchard gate, then,” said Berthold. “I’ll go at once to the lady’s garden.” The Eagle smiled, and the lord chuckled. “Yes, I beg you. One last glimpse at what is forbidden.” His brief laugh sank into a scowl. “Yet it will make me think of Elene again.” He rubbed his fingers together compulsively. “I will never be rid of her blood, Wolfhere. Never!”
“You did not kill her.”
“I should have been stronger!”
“I pray you, my lord, remember that even she, an adept, was helpless. You are not to blame.”
Berthold was younger than Ivar, with a way of shaking his head that made him appear passionate and headstrong, eager and bold; he shook himself all over, a young stallion champing at the bit, and plunged down the stairs. Wolfhere watched him stride away before walking back into the night. A monk hurried out of the chapel at the head of the procession and ran after Wolfhere. They consulted with heads bent together, although Ivar heard nothing except the rustle of robes and the shuffle of footsteps as Hersford’s monks moved past him. Then the Eagle trotted away into the dark, and the monk flowed away in the stream of his brethren.
Ivar could not decide what to do.
Baldwin clattered down the steps and grabbed him by the arm. “Did you hear? The Holy Word of truth has reached this far! Even in this monastery they speak the righteous words of the Mother and Son. Truth rises with the phoenix!” He wiped away tears. He beamed, as the poets would say, and the last worshipers, leaving the hall, stared at him as they passed.
“Like an angel,” they whispered as they scurried away.
“Some sorcerer has walked through the stone crown,” said Ivar, waving toward the hill, now difficult to see against the blackening night. “It might be best if we don’t wait around to see who it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“An enemy, someone who will try to stop us. Come, let’s see if Lord Berthold will let us travel with their party.”
“Very well,” said Baldwin compliantly.
They hurried after Lord Berthold and found the young lord standing beside the gate that opened into the enclosed garden where Father Ortulfus’ pretty young cousin presided over that gaggle of noble ladies who had washed to shore at the monastery. The gate creaked open, and a young woman, hiding a smile behind a hand, let Baldwin in. Ivar squeezed in behind him. In the graveled courtyard, a table was set out under an awning and ringed by half a dozen tall tripods, each one supporting a burning lamp. Plain wooden bowls were set on the table beside several loaves of bread, still steaming from the oven, and a big pot that smelled very like dill-garnished porridge, nothing more elaborate. The cottages gleamed with a fresh coat of whitewash. The herb garden, glimpsed within the shadows, lay in trim boxes and rows.
“Oh!” said the serving girl, seeing Baldwin in the lamplight. With an effort, she looked past him toward the gate, which was opening again. “Here they come.”
Ivar and Berthold turned to see a little procession enter through the gate, led by Ortulfus’ cousin, the Lady Beatrix. There were five other persons with her, four in linen gowns like to hers and the last a stocky woman in foreign clothing and with features more like those of the Quman than of real people. As Ivar stared at this creature, Lady Beatrix approached with hands extended.
“Lord Berthold! Are you come to feast with us? We have been out among the refugees, giving what aid we can. Poor souls! We will pray for their safety, and for the safety of my cousin, Father Ortulfus. Did you hear? He has been taken prisoner by the Eika!”
This news she imparted with no sign of fear or grief, but more as if it were a reward granted to him.
“No meal, although I thank you, Lady,” said Berthold with a rather shy smile. “We must depart in haste, I fear. I am come to take Berda away from you. We must ride out immediately.”
“It is night!” she exclaimed prettily. “You may lose your footing and stumble …” She looked at Ivar, and it was obvious she had thought he was someone else—Jonas, perhaps—because she stumbled over a word, gaped at him, while around her, her ladies began to whisper each to the other with the fierce blast of intrigue.
“Oh!” she said, seeing Baldwin. She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Still among the living!”
Baldwin smiled prettily, but his interest had fixed on the untouched bread set on the table. Berthold had already collected the stocky woman, and they vanished out the gate.
“We have to leave,” said Ivar, tugging on Baldwin’s elbow.
“Oh!” cried the young ladies, circling in for the kill.