“Like an angel,” they whispered as they scurried away.
“Some sorcerer has walked through the stone crown,” said Ivar, waving toward the hill, now difficult to see against the blackening night. “It might be best if we don’t wait around to see who it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“An enemy, someone who will try to stop us. Come, let’s see if Lord Berthold will let us travel with their party.”
“Very well,” said Baldwin compliantly.
They hurried after Lord Berthold and found the young lord standing beside the gate that opened into the enclosed garden where Father Ortulfus’ pretty young cousin presided over that gaggle of noble ladies who had washed to shore at the monastery. The gate creaked open, and a young woman, hiding a smile behind a hand, let Baldwin in. Ivar squeezed in behind him. In the graveled courtyard, a table was set out under an awning and ringed by half a dozen tall tripods, each one supporting a burning lamp. Plain wooden bowls were set on the table beside several loaves of bread, still steaming from the oven, and a big pot that smelled very like dill-garnished porridge, nothing more elaborate. The cottages gleamed with a fresh coat of whitewash. The herb garden, glimpsed within the shadows, lay in trim boxes and rows.
“Oh!” said the serving girl, seeing Baldwin in the lamplight. With an effort, she looked past him toward the gate, which was opening again. “Here they come.”
Ivar and Berthold turned to see a little procession enter through the gate, led by Ortulfus’ cousin, the Lady Beatrix. There were five other persons with her, four in linen gowns like to hers and the last a stocky woman in foreign clothing and with features more like those of the Quman than of real people. As Ivar stared at this creature, Lady Beatrix approached with hands extended.
“Lord Berthold! Are you come to feast with us? We have been out among the refugees, giving what aid we can. Poor souls! We will pray for their safety, and for the safety of my cousin, Father Ortulfus. Did you hear? He has been taken prisoner by the Eika!”
This news she imparted with no sign of fear or grief, but more as if it were a reward granted to him.
“No meal, although I thank you, Lady,” said Berthold with a rather shy smile. “We must depart in haste, I fear. I am come to take Berda away from you. We must ride out immediately.”
“It is night!” she exclaimed prettily. “You may lose your footing and stumble …” She looked at Ivar, and it was obvious she had thought he was someone else—Jonas, perhaps—because she stumbled over a word, gaped at him, while around her, her ladies began to whisper each to the other with the fierce blast of intrigue.
“Oh!” she said, seeing Baldwin. She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Still among the living!”
Baldwin smiled prettily, but his interest had fixed on the untouched bread set on the table. Berthold had already collected the stocky woman, and they vanished out the gate.
“We have to leave,” said Ivar, tugging on Baldwin’s elbow.
“Oh!” cried the young ladies, circling in for the kill.
“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.”
