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The death of his son.
“Fed to the dogs,” murmured Wolfhere. He grimaced like a man enduring an arrow’s barbed head being dug out of his thigh.
Liath fell forward onto her knees and clasped her hands before her. “Ai, Lady,” she whispered. “Hear my pledge. I will never love any man but him.”
“Reckless words,” said Wolfhere, his tone sharp. “Come, Liath.”
“Safe words,” she replied bitterly, “since he is now dead. And I will follow the fate others have determined for me.”
“So do we all,” he said quietly.
They left the fire still burning and returned back around the huts to find the field crowded with refugees forming into staggered lines, making ready to leave.
“Has so long a time passed?” Liath asked, amazed. She judged that another hundred or so refugees filled the oat field, and a few more trickled from the tunnel, scarred, shaking, and weeping. But these had left Gent hours ago. They could not know what had just transpired, what she and Wolfhere had seen. “How long did we look into the fire?”
Wolfhere did not answer. He had gone to confront Mayor Werner, to demand that the Eagles be given two horses. Liath did not listen to the argument; she stared at the cave’s mouth, where people still emerged into daylight, blinking, weeping, frightened, relieved. How many more would arrive? Was Manfred among them, or had he been killed? Did the biscop survive?
“Liath!” Wolfhere called to her, impatient, tense, and angry. “Come!”
Horses were brought. Werner sputtered and looked furious, but could not refuse. Liath took the reins of a gelding and mounted.
“What about Manfred?” Liath asked, looking back over her shoulder past the line of wagons and the tidy groups of refugees as they got into place, ready to begin their long march. She stared hopefully, hopelessly, toward the cave’s mouth.
“We can’t wait,” said Wolfhere. He urged his horse forward, angling up to the old road.
The first of the wagons jerked forward, heading west for Steleshame and safe haven. The refugees, with murmurings and sighs and one voice that could not stop sobbing out its grief, began to walk. But Liath hesitated, staring back.
Perhaps it was a trick of the eye. She thought she saw a faint figure standing on the rocky ridge above the mouth of the cave: the form of a woman draped in a gown of ancient design, herself wounded yet standing, unbroken by those wounds. The patron saint of Gent still watched over her flock.
Perhaps it was a trick of the breeze. She thought she heard a shout from the last figure to clamber out of the cave’s mouth. “The tunnel is closed! It’s sealed shut as if it never existed!”
“Liath!” Wolfhere was already into the trees. Wagons trundled up the road behind him.
Liath followed Wolfhere onto the old path that led into the forest and away from Gent. They soon left the ragged column of refugees far behind.
XIII
THE SHADOW OF
THE GUIVRE
1
SABELLA’S army pitched camp in the Elmark Valley, at the eastern edge of the lands inherited by her husband. Here, fifty years ago, the kingdom of Varre had given way to the lands ruled by the kings and queens of Wendar. In the highlands beyond the valley lay the outermost villages sworn to the duke of Fesse, whose loyalty to the Wendish royal house was absolute.
News came at dusk that an army commanded by Henry himself had arrived at the town of Kassel, within a day’s march of the border and their position. That evening Biscop Antonia’s clerics moved through camp, passing out amulets—one to each soldier. Alain walked with the clerics, by now accustomed to their presence; he slept, ate, walked, and prayed within sight of either Willibrod or Heribert.
Agius, too, of course. But Agius’ company was rather like the hairshirt the frater wore: Alain supposed that its constant rasping harsh presence was good for the soul and thus its elevation toward a more holy cast of thought, but for himself he preferred not to be always rubbed raw.
No doubt this failing on his part revealed how lacking he was in true holiness. But then, he had only to watch Agius each day to observe a man who wished for nothing except union with God. Alain admired the ferocity of Agius’ devotion. For himself, and despite his circumstances, Alain was amazed and heartened to be seeing something of the world at long last. He supposed, and prayed, that Our Lord and Lady would forgive him for wishing to experience the world before trothing himself entirely to Their service.
“What is this?” Agius asked when Alain and the clerics returned, late, to Biscop Antonia’s tent. Agius preferred to pray under guard rather than roam through camp in the company of Antonia’s clerics, whom he despised. Also, perhaps, he wanted to remain obviously caged, a hostage, rather than let anyone believe in the fiction of his willing complicity to Sabella’s cause. “Is this an amulet?”
Cleric Willibrod stammered something incomprehensible and scratched at his lesions.
Heribert, who never appeared cowed by Agius’ high station, held out the amulet impatiently. “It is for protection. Take it.”
Agius raised a haughty eyebrow. “Magic? Does Biscop Antonia dabble in magic now as well as treason?” Willibrod giggled nervously.
