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o;You can’t talk to me like that!”
“Of course I can. I am sure your father feels affection for you, but you are only the third of his three healthy, and adult, children. Princess Sapientia is all but crowned as his heir. You are not necessary to your father’s rule. I am. And I want my husband back.”
The one called Wichman broke into snorting laughter. “Ai, Lord! Now you’re reaping what you’ve sowed, little Cousin. Which one of those delightful boys is the missing bridegroom? Nay, it all comes clear now, it must be the angel. Not one of the others would have been missed, ugly little rats. Although I fear that Baldwin can scarcely be called an angel now since who knows how many have shared his favors.”
Margrave Judith was generous with her anger. “I recall, Lord Wichman, that your reckless behavior caused problems at Gent. Do not forget that your mother and I are old friends. Pray do not forget either that while a king’s third son may be of minor utility to him, a duchess’ superfluous sons are even less valuable than that.”
“Come now, Cousins,” said Bayan. He set a deceptively light hand on Wichman’s shoulder, more like that of a doting uncle, but steered him nevertheless away from Margrave Judith. “Arguing among ourselves we must not.” He swore in his own language and said something hurriedly to Brother Breschius.
“Prince Bayan reminds us that this is not the time to argue,” said Breschius with the amiable smile of the accomplished courtier. “We have a war to fight, and none of us knows when it may come to a fight—”
Perhaps God had a sense of humor, except, of course, that war was only amusing in the odd detail, never in the naked face of battle.
“Make way!” guards shouted, and scouts rode up in that instant.
“Prince Bayan! Your Highness!” Two men flung themselves to their knees before their commander. “News of Prince Bulkezu! His outriders have been sighted not an hour’s ride east of here, coming down along the river valley.”
“Ale for these men,” said Bayan.
The news spread from the royal pavilion as though carried by a plague of flies, lighting everywhere. Hanna could almost see it wash through the camp as men bolted up from their naps or huddled in groups or hastily threw saddles over their mounts. Bayan remained calm.
“Where do we fight them?” asked Judith.
“Surely we won’t retreat again?” cried Sapientia.
Bayan took his time. He asked many and more detailed questions while the army made ready below. He interviewed the two scouts thoroughly, and when a second pair came galloping up, he had ale brought for them as well. They had seen the van of the Quman army, a terrible, whistling many-headed beast swarming over the ground along the northern bank of the river. One of their number had fallen to Quman arrows, and they had themselves been slightly wounded and only barely escaped capture.
“We must hold our ground here,” he said at last, speaking in Ungrian and letting Breschius translate. He could not afford to be misunderstood. “This hill fort gives us strength. But, in addition, if their numbers are overwhelming, we can hold the ground to the northwest and retreat that way, across the river. They will hesitate because they are superstitious about crossing water. Also, this summit will give my mother the sight necessary to aid us.”
Everyone glanced nervously toward the small wagon. Two slaves waited, cross-legged, beside the steps, one a pale handsome man with an iron bracelet closed tightly on his left arm and the other a very tall, lean man whose skin had the blue-black color of ink. Not even Liath had skin so dark. Did the Kerayit princess wait inside? Hanna caught Brother Breschius’ eye then, and he smiled encouragingly at her, but at this moment he could say nothing.
Bayan made a sharp gesture and the guards leaped to attention as one among their number blew into a ram’s horn.
The call to arms blazed, and all activity in the camp came to a halt as everyone paused to look up at the hill, toward the royal pavilion. Bayan took Sapientia’s hand and they stepped forward so that they could be seen by most of the army. A great shout rose up, and then every man and woman there made ready for battle.
The call to arms came unexpectedly, because it was late afternoon, only a few hours until dark. In all the great poems battle was joined at dawn, with the first glint of the rising sun splintering off the spears or swords of the enemy as they closed. But this wasn’t a poem.
Ekkehard’s boys huddled together at the base of the hill, leaderless, confused, unsure what to do, while Prince Ekkehard himself still remained at the royal pavilion.
“I say we bolt north, while everyone is confused,” Baldwin was muttering. “No one will notice we’re gone. Then we can cut back west to that village.”
Ivar checked his saddle girth for the third time. “God Above, Baldwin! It would be dishonorable to desert Prince Ekkehard now. They’ll call us cowards.”
“What do I care what they call us?” demanded Baldwin. His spear lay on the ground, rolling as he caught a foot on it and almost tripped. “I just want to get out of here before she finds me!”
“How will we escape alone? We’ll more likely just get ourselves killed, and if we’re dead, we can’t preach the True Word.”
“Why should God honor us with Her Truth if we act like base cowards?” said Sigfrid. He looked so frail and ridiculous with a spear clutched in both hands. He wasn’t strong enough to wear a mail coat, so he rode unarmored.
“Just so!” said Ivar. “We have to stay, Baldwin. At least until the battle is over. Then I’ll do whatever you say.”
Baldwin’s expression worked its way through about ten emotions, each of them equally pleasant to look upon. Ivar felt a sudden, stabbing moment of pity for him, doomed by his beautiful face to be nothing more than a mirror in which other people would see their own desires and dreams.
“Ivar! Sigfrid! Baldwin! Look who I found! It’s a miracle!”
Ermanrich stumbled out of the confusion of soldiers forming into units or running off on unknowable errands, of a troop of cavalry riding out past them and wagons pulling back to the river’s edge where, in pairs, they were being hauled over to the far shore. Weaving like a drunken man, he seemed oblivious to the army making ready for battle. He was clutching the wrist of a very filthy young woman who, like him, was weeping what were apparently tears of joy.
“It’s Hathumod!” Ermanrich cried, and it was a good thing he identified her, for otherwise Ivar would never have recognized Ermanrich’s robust cousin in this thin, ragged woman. She looked more like a beggar, even had a red sore under one nostril and untrimmed, dirty fingernails.
