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“Ivar! Ivar!”
The aurochs broke into a run and bolted into the trees. Why did that damn fool keep shouting, where their enemies might hear?
He urged the mare forward and passed out from heavy cover into broken woodland, blinking, startled. Baldwin waved cheerfully, and Ivar squinted. A procession of no more than twoscore folk had halted on the road ahead of them, all turned back to see what was coming up from behind. A pair of dogs barked. These were villagers with handcarts and children, their hoes and shovels and scythes raised to do battle, and men in the brown robes of the faithful.
“Monks!” called Baldwin. “Maybe these are the survivors from Dibenvanger Cloister.”
As they trotted forward, the procession shifted as the children were thrust into the center and the monks and adult villagers fell shoulder to shoulder to meet the foe. But the closer Ivar and Baldwin came, the faster folk relaxed, staring and pointing.
“I pray you!” called Ivar. “We’re out of Autun, riding east on the trail of Duke Conrad and Lady Sabella. What has happened here?”
A man stepped out of the crowd. He held a spear as if he were a warrior, although he wore an abbot’s fine, if travel-stained, robe. He was young, vigorous, and handsome, ready to do battle with the worst the Enemy could throw at him. As he recognized them, his fierce, proud expression transmuted into one lit by a certain sarcastic gleam.
“The dazzling Brother Baldwin, beloved of the angels! And Brother Ivar of the North Mark! You are returned to us! Be welcome!”
“The angels?” said Baldwin, scratching at the light growth of beard that was coming in on his chin. “What do you mean, beloved of the angels? What angels?”
“Is he an angel, Mama?” one of the little tykes cried, and some folk laughed nervously while others drew their hands in close against their chests.
“Father Ortulfus.” Ivar dismounted and threw his reins over the mare’s head. He brushed the front of his tunic compulsively, for no good reason except that he wore a layman’s clothing instead of garb fit for a religious man.
The abbot smiled with a sharp amusement.
“How are you come here?” Ivar asked him.
“I may ask the same.” He gestured at a burly monk whom Ivar recognized. “Prior Ratbold! The company must continue. We must reach Hersford before night falls.”
Like the others, the prior was staring at Baldwin, only he was shaking his head. He raised both hands in the manner of a man warding off an attack, then turned and snapped a command at the stunned assembly. His words were echoed by the barking of the startled dogs, come to life, and the villagers shouldered their burdens and marched on with anxious faces and muttered comments. Children bent their heads and shuffled forward, but they glanced back at Baldwin so often that a couple of them stumbled and had to be hauled up by their ears.
Father Ortulfus waited until the group was out of earshot. “What news?” he asked wearily. “Be quick, if there is anything I should know. The rest must wait until we come to Hersford.”
“Is it safe there?”
“Nowhere is safe, Brother Ivar. Have you not seen? Every habitation along this road has been attacked by raiders bearing poisoned arrows that kill with only a prick. Creatures with the bodies of men and the faces of animals As well, many folk have starved because the spring gleaning came late, and they had already lost so many livestock and stores to the storms of last autumn that they hadn’t enough stores to last out the season of want. What of Conrad and Sabella?”
“Did they not come this way?”
“I have not seen them at Hersford. There is another route they might have taken. If they were riding to Kassel, they would turn toward the Hellweg at the crossroads at die Eiche. That’s a better road, the main route through this region.”
“Where is that? Did we miss it?” demanded Baldwin.
Ortulfus smiled almost mockingly. “Fear not, friends. It lies a short way ahead. You may leave us there and go on your way. Yet tell me all before you go.”
Ivar rubbed his face. He was so tired, and none of it ever made any difference. “We were come to Autun with Biscop Constance, whom you know.”
“She lives?” The abbot’s expression changed. For a moment it seemed the sun had come out to illuminate him.
“She lives, Father. She is burdened with troubles and injuries, but she is alive—or was when we saw her.” Quickly he sketched the scene.
Ortulfus groaned aloud. “I have heard stories of these Eika raiders. I thought they were no longer a threat. And never a threat so far inland. If the biscop’s party moves so slowly, and they race up behind …” He looked away, too stricken to finish the sentence.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Ivar said. “She escaped them, or she is dead. We must reach Lady Sabella and Duke Conrad, so they can turn back to save Autun.”
“They are not the only ones who can save Autun.”
“Who else can you mean?”
“Only this.” Father Ortulfus wore a Circle of Unity hammered out of finest silver, but his hand briefly folded to form the hand sign depicting the phoenix. “King Henry’s heir rides abroad in these lands. He defeated the invaders at Osterburg. He shattered their army and drove their remnants into the east. It is said he saved Henry from a terrible malefic spell set on him by an evil man. That he brought Henry’s army out of Aosta when no other man could have done so. He could save Autun.”
