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“Will you take bread, at least?” cried Lady Beatrix. She hastened toward the table, and before Ivar had quite pulled Baldwin out of the garden, she offered them each a loaf with her own hands.
“Thank you!” said Baldwin, grabbing both.
Ivar slammed the gate shut. “We must hurry!”
Baldwin tucked one loaf under an arm and tore off a hank of the other. The bread’s insides had a cloudy, delicate look and a heavenly smell.
“This is good!” he said, and between mouthfuls, “horses might go lame … if keep riding … without new shoes.”
“If we’re captured here, we’ll have no chance to alert Lady Sabella, or even Prince Sanglant.”
Baldwin shrugged. “Aren’t you going to have some?”
“Come on!”
Berthold and his companion had already crossed the green. Ivar ran after him and into the orchard, ducking under branches and twice detouring around encampments of refugees. He did not catch up to the others until they reached the orchard gate, where Berthold had halted to wait for the rest of his party to gather.
“It might be best, Lord Berthold, if my companion and I travel with you. We both wish to avoid the Eika.”
“We seek the regnant,” said Berthold curtly. “I have no wish to be captured by Lady Sabella, who once raised that evil woman to be biscop.”
“Constance?”
“No! Antonia of Mainni.”
“I don’t know who you are talking about.”
“Skopos now, or so she claims. She rules over a nest of vipers! Sabella can’t be trusted if she once honored that awful woman! Ally to Hugh of Austra! A murderer! A foul maleficus!” Lord Berthold let loose such a tirade of filthy imprecations that Ivar blushed and looked away, and found himself staring at the stocky companion. She had the look of the Quman, but there was something indefinably different about her that Ivar could not identify. She wore a glittering headpiece, beads and gold sewn into a stiff, black fabric, and she had a strong jaw and broad cheekbones, big hands, and a stolid expression. She said nothing. It was not clear if she understand the flood of lurid curses, which did not cease until the rest of Berthold’s group came up to meet them.
Besides Lord Jonas and the Quman man, a slender cleric attended patiently, almost absently, pausing under the canopy of a walnut tree. All carried saddlebags slung awkwardly over their shoulders. The Quman soldier handed two saddlebags to the silent woman. Wolfhere strode up with Prior Ratbold, heads bent together as they talked, and both looked up to count the people waiting beside the gate.
“We’ll close all the gates after you’ve left,” said Ratbold, repeating instructions, “and let no man in.”
“Nor woman either,” said Wolfhere.
“Who will carry the lamps?” asked Berthold. “Where are the horses?”
“No light,” said Wolfhere. “And no horses.”
“We must walk?” asked Jonas disbelievingly.
“How will we see?” asked Berthold.
“I know this path. My lord, the horses are nearly spent. Prior Ratbold has none to offer us. We’ll go faster on foot because we can march night and day. We must move swiftly. The Eika will.”
“The Eika have no horses,” said Ivar. When everyone looked curiously at him, he added, “We saw their army. We were hidden in the trees, upwind. They didn’t know we were there.”
“My lord,” said Wolfhere to Berthold. Berthold nodded, and, that quickly, their party left through the open gate.
Ivar’s feet had grown roots; the wind played around him as branches rattled above and Prior Ratbold watched into the night beyond the gate.
“He never answered me,” muttered Ivar.
“I beg your pardon?” Ratbold asked, without turning.
“I thought,” said Ivar irritably, “that we might join together. Walk southeast together, for safety. Better if Baldwin and I wait for our horses to be reshod…. yet if what the Eagle says is true …”
“Go, or stay,” said Ratbold. “I am about to close this gate, Brother Ivar. Then the choice will be made.”
