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Even the masters at Quedlinhame, who had spoiled him because of his handsome face and pliant manners, had agreed that Baldwin was too stupid to learn to read and write beyond the simplest colloquies meant to teach ten year olds.
Johanna appeared at Ivar’s elbow, nudging his foot. He winced, and aided her as she stoked up this brazier and moved on to the rest placed around the chamber to warm Lady Sabella and her entourage where they lounged at their ease.
“As dreary as this winter has been, at least the Eika have not raided,” the blond warrior was saying.
“Nay, Amalfred, all last year they confined their raids to Salia,” remarked one of the women. “Easy pickings there.”
“If Salia falls, then why not strike at us?” he retorted.
“We shall see. The merchants say it’s too early to sail yet, that the tides and winds aren’t favorable. They say some kind of enchantment has troubled the seas. We’ll be safe if the winds keep the Eika from our shores.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Sabella’s gaze flicked incuriously over the two servants as they went about their task in silence. She glanced toward the cleric, who was bent again over his writing.
Ivar could not interpret the way her lips flattened into a thin line that might betoken suppressed passion, or disgust. The two emotions were, perhaps, related, he supposed as he kept his face canted away from her. He had himself swung wildly between those feelings, back in the days when restraint had been the least of his concerns, when he and Baldwin had run away with Prince Ekkehard and his companions. Right now, however, he was as flushed and out of breath as if he’d been running. Who could have thought he had missed Baldwin so very dearly?
“Perhaps?” asked the warrior. He was a man boasting perhaps thirty years. He spoke with the accent of the west and was most likely a border lord. “Pray enlighten us with your wisdom, Your Highness.”
“Perhaps,” she repeated, her gaze sliding smoothly away from Baldwin, as if he were of no account. “The Eika are not all that threaten us, although it is true they raided all along the Salian shore last summer and autumn. According to reports.”
“My lands are overrun with Salians,” said one of the women.
“With our stores low, their presence threatens us,” answered Sabella. “We must act in concert to drive them back to their homes.”
“What of those who accept the truth?” asked the lord. “The heresy of the Translatus is still accepted by the apostate clergy in Salia. If the refugees who have accepted the truth return home, they will be executed.”
“Then their blood will be on the hands of their masters. God will judge. But the winter has been cold. Our stores are low. Strange portents trouble us. Nothing has been the same since that terrible storm that struck last autumn. I have refugees of my own from within my duchy to feed. I cannot feed Salians as well. Let the Eika conquer them—and feed them! To the fishes, if necessary.”
“Ha! They say there are people in the sea who eat human flesh.”
“They say some in the west who are starving eat human flesh, Lord Amalfred,” observed Sabella.
“Brixians, perhaps. They’re the only Salians who would degrade themselves in such a way.”
“My lord,” said one of the clerics sternly, “if such folk are starving, then God enjoins us to give them aid and compassion.”
“Well,” continued Amalfred boldly, “if Lady Sabella grants me those stores, then I can feed my restless soldiers who mutter about rebellion.”
“I pray you, Your Highness,” said Baldwin without looking up from his writing desk. How pleasing his voice was, compared to the coarser voices of Sabella’s companions. “Those rations of grain are meant to go to the poor in Autun, Your Highness. There are so many who haven’t enough to eat.”
“The poor of Autun cannot aid me,” said Sabella, “but Lord Amalfred’s hungry soldiers can fight to protect the Varren borderlands.”
“And gain a little territory in Salia for themselves,” added one of her companions.
Sabella laughed, but she looked again, frowning, at the pair of servants. “Haven’t you done? What slow pair of fools has been foisted on me now? What are your names?”
“I pray you, Your Highness,” said Baldwin sweetly without looking up from his writing desk. “I have forgotten again whether it is the monastery of Firsebarg or that of Felden which desires a new abbot to rule over them, now that their lord father has been absent so long.”
“Firsebarg, Baldwin! Why won’t you attend the first time I tell you things. My sister Rotrudis’ useless whelp, Reginar, has gone missing since last year. Must I remember everything for you?”
Johanna tugged on Ivar’s sleeve, and he hastily followed her out of the chamber by a side door. They came into a narrow courtyard abutting the wall.
“Wait here a moment, I pray you,” Johanna said, indicating he should set down the buckets. “I must use the necessary. Then we’ll get on with our work.”
She had lit a taper from one of the braziers and by its light slipped into one of the closed stalls built out from the wall.
Up here on the height it was cold and the wind bit hard. He blew on his hands and stared about him, but there wasn’t much to see. A pair of torches lit a distant gate. He could not see the town below but felt the expanse of air. All other souls slept. Only Lady Sabella had riches enough to burn oil at night.
He stared at the door, and at last it creaked open and creaked shut. A light appeared, and a pale head loomed before him. Without speaking, he grabbed the cap that covered Ivar’s head and ripped it off, then held the lamp close to see the color of his hair. With a muttered oath more like a moan than words, he grabbed Ivar’s left hand first, released it, and grasped the right one. There winked the lapis lazuli ring, gleaming in lamplight.
