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Alain bowed his head. Rage snuffled into his palm, smelling something of interest there—perhaps the lingering scent of the servingwoman. Ai, Lady; as if the thought made her appear, there she stood beside Lavastine, filling the count’s cup. She glanced up, briefly, at Alain, and then away. She did not look at him again. The feast proceeded without incident, and the poet—whose diction and voice were decent enough—was encouraged to sing something more popular.
Only in the morning when they had ridden away from the holding and lost sight of it past hills and forest did Lavastine comment on the incident.
“I am pleased with your cleverness.”
“But—”
Lavastine lifted a hand, which meant he had not finished and did not yet wish for Alain to reply. Dutifully, Alain waited. “But you must not be unwilling to boast of your accomplishments, Alain. To display prowess in battle is a fine thing for a man in your position. You must not boast immoderately, beyond what you deserve, but it is just as bad to claim false humility. Modesty is a virtue for churchmen, not for the son and heir of a count, one who will lead these same men and their younger brothers and cousins and their sons into battle. They must believe in you, and they must believe that your good fortune will lift them as well and keep them alive and prosperous. That the Lady of Battles, a saint, has given you her favor—that will weigh heavily with them. But you must not mire yourself in humility. You are not a monk, Alain.”
“I was meant to be one,” he murmured.
“Not anymore! We will no longer speak of this, Alain. A good man remembers and honors his oaths. In time, when you are an old man and have an heir who is ready to take your place, then perhaps you can retire to a monastery and live out the rest of your years in peace. But that oath was made for you by others, before it was known who you were and what role you have to play. You never stood before the monastery gate and pledged yourself to the church. That you think of this obligation at all is to your credit. But it is not to be spoken of again. Do you understand?”
Alain understood. “Yes, Father,” he replied. The hounds, on their leashes, padded obediently alongside.
Lavastine took in a deep breath of the autumn air. “No need to hasten to Osna Sound.” He turned to survey his retinue. “We’ve heard no reports of Eika wintering there. I think we may take a few days to go hunting.”
VI
THE CHILDREN OF GENT
1
SPADES stabbed into loose dirt. From where she stood, Anna caught flecks of soil on her cheek, spray thrown out as the gravediggers filled in the latest grave. They had buried twelve refugees in a mass grave this bitter cold morning, including a young mother and her newborn babe.
Anna had been on her way to the stream, but it was hard not to stop and stare. A few ragged onlookers huddled in the wind. Rain so cold it felt like droplets of ice spattered down, and she tugged her tattered cloak tighter about her shoulders. Here in the camp, corpses went naked into the grave since the living had need of the clothes off their backs.
A child no more than two or three winters old bawled at the lip of the pit. It had straggly hair that might have been blond once, a face matted with filth, a dirty tunic, and nothing covering its feet. It also looked about to fall into the pit with the dead folk. She set down her buckets and hurried forward just as the child slipped and fell to its rump on the crumbling slope.
“Here, now,” she said, grabbing it by the arm and pulling it back. “Don’t fall in, child.” Looking around, she hailed one of the diggers. “Where’s the child’s kin?”
He pointed into the grave, where woman and infant lay bound together by shreds of old cloth, all that the folk in the camp could spare to make sure they weren’t separated in death. With a stab and a heave, he tossed another spadeful of earth onto the grave. A shower of dirt scattered across the waxy faces of mother and child.
“Isn’t there anyone here to look after it?”
“It was crying when we came to carry away the corpse,” he said, “and it’s crying still. Ach, child,” he added, “perhaps it was a blessing that the children of Gent escaped the city, but most of them are orphans now, as is this poor babe. Who’s to care for them when we can’t even care for our own?”
The child, safe away from the rim, had now fastened onto her thigh and it snuffled there, smearing her tunic with snot as it whimpered and coughed.
“Who, indeed?” asked Anna softly. With a finger she touched the Circle of Unity that hung at her chest. “Come, little one. What’s your name?”
The child didn’t seem to know its name, nor could it talk. She pried its arms off her leg and finally, with some coaxing, got the child to drag one of the empty buckets. In this way, with the baby toddling along beside her, they made it to the stream, where they waited in line to dip their wooden buckets into the water.
“Who’s this?” asked one of the older girls, indicating the child who stood fast at Anna’s heels like a starving dog. “I didn’t know you had a little brother.”
“I found him by the new grave.”
“Ach, indeed,” said an older boy. “That would be Widow Artilde’s older child.”
“Widow?” asked Anna. “But she was so young.” Then she realized how stupid the comment sounded as the older children snickered.
“Her husband was a militia man in the city. I suppose he died when the Eika came.”
“Then you know her?” Anna tried to draw the child out from behind her, but the child began to bawl again.
“She’s dead,” said the boy. “Had the baby, and they both of them caught sick and died.”
“Doesn’t anyone want this child?”
