Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars 7)

“Well met,” she called out. “I’m an Eagle, riding from Autun.”

“A fine company you have to escort you,” he said. “I recall when Eagles rode alone on these roads.”

“Not that long ago,” she retorted, “but you know it isn’t safe now. There’s some rough country back there, abandoned by honest folk since the tempest.”

He grunted, squinting as the company neared, counting them on his fingers: a dozen horsemen and a dozen Eika ambling at that easy stride they could hold for weeks on end, it seemed. Over the course of a day they had to restrain themselves from outpacing the horses.

“Some abandoned their lands,” he remarked, looking at the Eika with the usual suspicion. “The others starved or were murdered by savages and outlaws.”

“They’re our allies.”

“So they are, now. But I was at Gent.”

She saw no way to answer this, so she changed the subject. “There wasn’t so much settlement here last time I passed this way. New fields. What’s down that path?”

“Oh, that’s Ravnholt Manor, all right. It was cut out of the forest a generation ago, just a small holding, but we’ve got it building fast, now, quite a few out of Lavas Holding have moved along out this way with the blessing of the count and some have fled to us from farther east, as you saw. We’ve a stout palisade, and room to grow. We’ve got our own plough, too!” He grinned, suddenly delighted, raised a hand, and waved frantically. “Ivar! Ivar!”

Ivar broke out of the company—he had been arguing with that impossible chatter-mouth Aestan of Alba about whether the phoenix had two wings or six—and trotted toward them. Ai, God! She bit down on a grin to see his sulky expression break into a broad smile.

“Erkanwulf!”

“What? Are you riding in the regnant’s service now, Lord Ivar?”

“I’m an Eagle,” he said.

“You can’t be. You’re noble born. My lord.” That last said with a grin.

Ivar pulled up alongside and swung down off his horse. “Maybe so, but my brother Gero is glad to be shed of me. Good God, Erkanwulf! You’re looking well!”

Then she must endure greetings and slaps on the back and all manner of hail, fellow and well met cheer, when truly she just wanted to get on to Lavas Holding. At length, it was settled that Ivar would stay overnight in Ravnholt Manor to catch up on the news and give out his own, and come along afterward.

She rode on with the escort. They were truly in Lavas County now, ripe with summer, trees in full leaf and berries plump and juicy where the sun had sweetened them. Hamlets sprouted at intervals along the road, each ringed by a stockade. Goats grazed, heads deep into brambles. Shepherd children waved at her, then scampered off as the Eika contingent strode into view.

In another day they came to cleared land surrounded by stands of woodland and coppice where flocks of sheep grazed amiably, and after that rode past newly cut fields where men and women were picking out stones so the land could be ploughed for winter wheat. Sooner than she expected, they came over the slope to see the vast spread of striped fields surrounding Lavas Holding. A new stockade had engulfed the old church, which had long stood outside the old earth wall and its four wooden towers. Folk were building a pair of houses along a dirt street struck straight out from the old gate. The company passed a pair of recently planted orchards, still saplings, and a tenting field with fulled cloth strung out taut to dry.

The call came up from the watchtower. She unfurled their banner, and they rode through the outer gate, along the dusty avenue, under the old gate, and into a busy square. Grooms ran up to take their horses and show the soldiers to barracks.

Hanna ran up the steps into the hall, which was empty and peaceful in the late afternoon but with the tables set in place for a feast. The clap of her feet on the plank floor seemed desperately noisy. A steward led her through a tiny courtyard alive with color and fragrant with herbs and flowers, and she almost mistakenly turned through the arch that led into the stable yard beyond but was guided to a door set into the old stone tower, relic of an earlier time. As she climbed the curving staircase that led to the upper chamber, she tried to walk softly.

She paused in the entryway. Two windows set at angles into the walls allowed light into the whitewashed room. One was a magnificent painted glass scene depicting the martyrdom of St. Lavrentius and the other a simple opening to let in a cooling breeze. Through that window she saw the skeletal rafters of a two-storied wing being added onto the compound, but no one was working there at the moment. A pair of tapestries hung to either side of the door. One depicted the Lavas badge—two black hounds on a silver field—but the murky colors of the other mostly obscured its scene, which seemed to show a procession making its way through a dark forest.

After the steady clop of travel and the hustle of the courtyard, the silence in the chamber weighed heavily, nothing heard or seen except the scritch of a quill on parchment and the press of styluses into wax tablets. This was the count’s chamber, with a table, cushioned chair, and a dozen cups and two flasks set along a sideboard, but it appeared more like one of the schoolrooms found in the convent. Yet most of the people hard at work here were not children but adults, both young and old. At intervals, one or another of these glanced up to note her presence before returning to their work. A young woman with the coloring and features of the Ashioi gave Hanna a tartly welcoming smile, and then winked at a good-looking young man, who blushed furiously. It was strange to see one of the enemy dressed in Wendish clothing, although admittedly she wore neither shoes nor leggings under her knee-length tunic.

To one side stood a fine couch on which lay the ancient countess, sleeping while the others worked. Sister Hilaria sat beside her, sewing; she greeted Hanna with a welcoming smile. A pack of yearling hounds stretched out around and under the couch, three plopped on their sides, one rolled onto its back, and the fifth licking a forepaw.

Two fair-haired girls whispered, but so loudly that Hanna could hear them.

“I don’t think it’s fair, that she got to go out.”

“And we had to stay in! But I guess she always gets what she wants.”

“She is the heir. She’s never said a mean thing to me, Blanche. She’s not nearly as mean as you are.”

“I am not!”

“You are, too!”

“I just tell the truth. That’s not mean!”