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Liath shook her head, too sick at heart to know what to say. “Sanglant would never have left you behind,” she said at last, “no more could I, knowing how well you have served my daughter. Now then, let’s go on.”
They came at last to an overlook where Zuangua had gathered his entire force, five bundles of mask warriors. Together, they gazed over a wide vista. Forest cut away on the hill to either side, bright green with early leaves. A river cut through the valley below, a few farms and hamlets strung along its length. Farther away rose an estate, recognizable as a monastic institution because of its architecture. It was ringed by a livestock palisade, and by stripes of fields and several well tended orchards.
A bird chirruped in the trees. A flight of swifts circled up from the direction of the clearing, as if startled.
“That is Hersford Monastery.” She shut her eyes. Pacing through her palace of memory, she climbed through the hierarchy of, gates until she came to the circle of the sword of truth. There she made her way into a wooden hall whose floor she had entirely covered with a rimmed basin carpeted with damp sand. Onto this malleable surface she had incised the many tracks and roads on which she had herself ridden while an Eagle and those she had been told of by other Eagles. “Hersford lies a week or two weeks’ journey east of Autun, which we must avoid. But it is only a few days’ journey southwest, to Kassel. Where Sanglant and Liutgard meant to go.”
“What of Hugh of Austra?” asked Zuangua.
She opened her eyes. In the light of day, he looked frightening, his skin on one side of his face blistered and the tip of his curled hand like a claw where it peeped out of the sling. The burns made him appear even more grim and determined.
Sharp Edge and the four masks who had accompanied her looked at Liath, waiting for her to speak, but the rest—even Anna—had fixed on Zuangua, their commander.
“You are a strong man,” she said to him, “to keep walking with such injuries.”
“Hate makes me strong.” He indicated the distant monastery. “What of that place?”
Looking more closely, she saw the inner fields were thronged with a crowd of people, moving among what seemed to be tents and makeshift shelters. “That’s where I would go first, if I were Hugh of Austra. He needs provisions, maybe a horse to ride. He’s a churchman, too. They’ll shelter him for one night.”
“After that?”
She shrugged. She burned, thinking of Blessing, so close now. “I don’t know how many days ago he reached here, how quickly he crossed through the crowns, how far ahead he is. I must go down. If he’s gone, they’ll have seen what direction he rode out.”
Zuangua nodded toward his trackers, already ranging ahead on the path. “He won’t escape us.”
5
HE found a court surrounded on three sides by barracks where he could wash his face and hands, and water and feed the hounds. Aestan and Eagor kept on his tail, although fatigue had deadened Aestan’s tongue. At the trough, the two soldiers also scrubbed the night’s work from their own hands. Wendish troops eyed them suspiciously but spoke no damning word, holding to the agreement sworn by their leaders the day before. In a neighboring barracks, Eika soldiers lounged at open shutters and doors, but they called no greetings to their brothers, only nodded as Aestan and ?agor passed under a portal that led to the vast central courtyard within the oldest portion of Kassel’s palace complex.
Servants were up and moving already. Most, he supposed, had not slept on such a night. He and his escort approached the great hall from the east. The hall was a huge timber edifice with thick beams and a massive roof, built in the time of Queen Conradina. The second story of the new palace, where Theophanu and Stronghand had retired, could be seen rising behind the single-storied barracks court that separated the two sections of the palace. A steady wind out of the east beat the pennants and banners flying from the high roof peaks. It was unusually cold.
An honor guard stood at attention in the court, where an empty wagon had been drawn up. These were Sanglant’s remaining guardsmen as well as twoscore Lions, some with heads bowed and others with chins lifted. Many had been weeping; some wore clothing stained with blood from yesterday’s battle. Seeing Alain, a number of the Lions watched him walk past but said nothing.
The main entrance stood around the corner on the narrow front of the hall where it looked down over the city, hidden from his view here by a wing of the old palace. He followed the stream of servants bearing trays of food and drink toward a side door. As they approached this entrance, the hounds whined and sulked. At the threshold, he had to call them twice, thrice, and then four times, and they crawled forward almost on their bellies because they were so reluctant to enter, ears flat and hindquarters tucked tight. Rage growled in an uneasy undertone; Sorrow yawned repeatedly to show his discomfort.
“Come!” he said sternly to the hounds. His pair of escorts stayed by the door, crossing their arms to stand like glowering statues.
God so loved humankind that They had given them ears to hear with, mouths to argue with, and hands and arms for sweeping gestures that punctuated those statements.
At least twoscore clerics populated the hall. It was a surprisingly contentious gathering given the early hour and the presence of a dead king lying in state—and frankly ignored—in the shadows at the back of the hall where light did not quite reach. The bodies of Sabella and Sapientia had already been taken away to be washed and wrapped, but it seemed no person had yet been detailed to care for Sanglant’s corpse.
Most of the conclave clustered on benches at the foot of the dais, although one nervous man paced beside the unlit hearth, pausing to listen carefully only when the conversation got most heated. The rest were grouped in factions, according to the three women seated at the edge of the dais.
The largest group swayed to the words of Mother Scholastica: monks, nuns, noble clerics, and a pair of cowed biscops whom Alain did not recognize. A smaller but equally vociferous number—mostly young and all in monastic or clerical dress—had their sights fixed on Biscop Constance, whose pain-racked face was marked, Alain saw now, with early death. She was not much more than thirty, but he knew she would be dead within the year, and by the vigor of her argument, the fierceness with which she scolded her eminent aunt, he guessed that she knew it, too. Hathumod stood behind her, holding a cup, so intent on Constance that she did not notice Alain.
Seated to the left, speaking least, and least regarded, was Sister Rosvita. She held three books on her lap, guarded by the way her arms crossed over them. She, too, boasted a company of faithful followers, but they were only five in number, watchful rather than talkative. Two men and three young women.
“The writ of excommunication is not a problem, now that Sanglant is dead,” said Mother Scholastica.
“It is a problem if there is no skopos willing, or able, to lift it,” objected Constance.
“Need we even believe that Antonia of Mainni had the right to elect herself? Or the power to enforce her edicts? I think not.”
“Then why insist that the writ mattered at all? You did, so I am told, when Sanglant was still alive.”
“Any such writ must be taken seriously! You will cause far more suffering, Constance, with your stubborn insistence in this matter of heresy. Not just excommunication, but war may result. We are weak, and cannot hope to defend ourselves on multiple fronts. I do not approve of Theophanu’s alliance, but I admit it spares us from civil war.”
“She did what was necessary. I believe we will not be sorry for supporting her. As for the other, we must hold a council. The evidence must be weighed. I have it all written down!”
