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“It’s out of your hands, Eagle. You are the prisoner of Lord Alexandros now.”
She ripped her arm out of his grasp and bolted, but two of the guards tackled her. She went down hard, but kept fighting until they pinned all her limbs. They stripped her of her weapons, tied her hands and feet with rope, and threw her in the back of a wagon as it lurched past in the train of Lord Alexandros. Scraped, bloody, and bruised, she wept with fury, hating herself for her helplessness.
4
HANNA did not return. They waited for hours at the edge of camp, hoping not to be noticed, and indeed it was as if they had become invisible. No one paid them the least mind. There was no telling what hour of the day it was, or what service they ought to sing, because the clouds never lifted and the light kept its smoky, sullen glow, scarcely enough to read by.
At intervals they watched vague shapes that seemed to be troops moving in the distance, perhaps a line of march receding toward the northeast, but the haze obscured most movement beyond an arrow’s shot. Their eyes stung and their noses ran from the constant irritation of falling ash and blowing grit. Yet the patter of ash fall eased by the time Fortunatus sighed and turned to Rosvita.
“What if she is not coming back, Sister? Should one of us go look for her?”
“We will not split up. What happens to one, happens to all.”
“We have waited here long enough,” said Mother Obligatia. They had set her litter across the wagon and shielded her with a canvas awning so that the ancient nun could ease up on her elbows and survey the scene. “Night will come and find us standing like dumb beasts in the field.”
Rosvita smiled, feeling how stern her heart had become. Smiles meant something different here in the aftermath; they betokened not happiness or laughter but determination. “You are right. We must make a decision, or others will choose for us.”
They had taken turns circling out from their position, venturing only to that point where they could still see back to the group as they searched in the wreckage for food and water. They had found five corpses, put one dreadfully injured dog out of its misery, and managed otherwise to collect a small store of provisions and, most importantly, a score of sacks and leather bottles filled variously with wine, sweetened vinegar, and a nasty-tasting liquid that stank of aniseed but was something they might be able to drink in dire need.
The wagon under which Aurea had sheltered was too heavy to drag, but Hilaria discovered a handcart in decent shape, needing only a small repair to the axle because it had tipped over and spilled its load of bundled herbs.
“Some peddler following the army,” said Aurea as she helped the girls gather up what could be salvaged: lavender, mostly, sage, tufts of bay and basil, and feverwort. “A bag of chestnuts! Why would anyone abandon such treasures?”
“Perhaps the peddler is dead,” said Ruoda sharply. Gerwita began to snivel.
“We’ll stay together,” said Rosvita, seeing that tempers would run high with exhaustion and fear driving them. “Take turns hauling the cart.”
They set off with Rosvita in the lead beside Diocletia. Behind them, Fortunatus and Teuda carried Mother Obligatia’s litter. Heriburg followed with the precious books slung over her back. Ruoda and Gerwita shepherded Petra, while Jerome and Jehan took turns pushing the cart. Tireless Hilaria paced up and down the line to spell those who needed a rest, and Aurea set herself as their rear guard. They had no particular destination but made their way through rippling lakes of torn and crumpled canvas, past discarded shoes and forgotten harness, an iron kettle, a red cap, and a broken leather strap affixed to a bronze Circle of Unity in the Arethousan style with crossed bars quartering the interior. The armies had left an eerie silence in their wake but for the wind grumbling through scraps of canvas and a dog snuffling at an overturned wagon, trying to dig its way in to something caught underneath.
But for the wind and the dog, nothing and no one moved in the haze. Those folk the armies had not taken with them had, evidently, fled the scene, fearing worse to come. It was difficult to imagine what could be worse than what they had suffered during the night.
“Look!” murmured Diocletia. “There’s someone—there!”
A figure huddled in a clearing notable for the lack of debris on all sides except a single expanse of splotched canvas that had once been a grand tent and a scattering of spears tumbled on the ground. The creature crouched with its head buried in its dirty riding skirts and its arms wrapped around its knees, like a child.
Rosvita gestured for the others to halt. She ventured forward cautiously with Diocletia beside her. The nun paused to pick up a spear, and Hilaria and Aurea hurried up beside her to gather up the rest. They walked softly, but even so, the person seemed utterly lost not to have heard their approach. They halted a body’s length from her—it was now obvious it was a woman—and Diocletia moved sideways so that if the woman was armed and dangerous she might not strike them both dead with one blow. How had it come to this, that a holy nun should think like a soldier, weighing tactics? Was this to be the fate of all humankind in the weeks and months to come?
“Friend,” said Rosvita in Arethousan, as gently as she knew how. “We will not harm you.”
At first, she gained no response. But at last that dark head stirred and a woman raised a tearstained face to stare at her with an expression of such hopelessness that Rosvita felt tears in her own eyes drawn out by that naked anguish.
She was stunned as she recognized the other woman. “Your Highness,” she said in Wendish. “I am Sister Rosvita. Do you remember me? Where is King Geza?”
“I divorce you,” said the princess, each word formed so precisely that it seemed she was repeating a phrase spoken by someone else. Her gaze was bleak, and her hands were dirty, as if she had been digging.
“Are you alone, Your Highness?”
Sapientia’s laugh was that of a madwoman, quickly cut off. “A prince without a retinue is no prince!”
“We are your retinue, Your Highness.”
Sapientia stared at her for a long time without answering. Rosvita began to doubt the princess had heard her.
Fortunatus crept up beside Rosvita and leaned to whisper in her ear. “There is no one left, Sister. She’s been abandoned, just as we were.” He sounded as shocked as she felt. “She is King Henry’s daughter! What will we do?”
“We must take her with us.”
A robed person swept past them and heedlessly knelt down within range of the princess. “Come, little lamb,” she said in Dariyan. “You’ve strayed far, but we’ll take care of you now.”
