“But our supplies—!” objected Baldwin.
“Almost gone. The horses need a rest. It isn’t far. We’ll be safer with an Eagle to guide us and stout arms to fight by our side.”
He crossed through the gate and, outside, turned back to see that Baldwin remained inside. “Are you coming or staying?”
“What if Hersford is attacked and we’re not here to help them? We can’t just abandon these poor folk, now that their abbot is stolen away from them!” He rubbed at the beard again, which fretted him. “I don’t like traveling.”
He was like a dog that has become accustomed to the leash.
“Then stay and do what you can for these brothers and refugees. I’ll come back for you when all this is over.”
“Ivar…”
“I’m not angry with you, Baldwin. But if I mean to go with those others, I must hurry, or I’ll lose them.”
“It might be best,” muttered Ratbold.
Baldwin shoved both half and whole loaf into Ivar’s arms, then wrestled with a hand and twisted off his lapis lazuli ring, the one he had claimed from the barrow. Shaking, he clutched Ivar’s hand across the open gate and closed Ivar’s fingers over the ring.
“Haven’t we given this back and forth enough times?” Ivar asked, half laughing because he wanted also to cry.
“It will keep you safe.”
“I’m closing the gate,” said Ratbold. And then, “Hush! Do you hear?” The honking of geese swelled out of the night. “This is the wrong season for geese.”
Baldwin jumped back, and the prior scraped the gate closed in Ivar’s face. But he was poised now, ready to fly, and he found the path and walked as swiftly as he could, stumbling twice but able to see the path because it had a slightly lighter color than the ground to either side. He heard a cough, and where the path branched he heard a branch snap and a hissed complaint down along the right fork, and in this way he was able to follow them, although it seemed they were moving fast despite the dark night. Of the unseasonable geese, he heard no further sign. As he gained confidence in his footing, he increased his pace, and a dozen or more paces later he tripped over a foot and found himself facedown with a blade laid against his back.
He gasped into the dirt and choked out his name.
“Ivar? That one who just came, with the refugees?” That was a Wendish voice, thank God. “Let him up. What means this?”
“I pray you, let me travel with you.”
The pressure of the blade eased. He rose to hands and knees, spitting dirt out of his mouth.
“Send him back,” said Lord Berthold.
The Eagle knelt beside him as if examining his face or his weapons. “Nay, best let him come this way, with us.”
“He’s in league with Lady Sabella!” whispered Lord Berthold furiously.
“So can he be there in Hersford, or here with us, and if the latter, we can better keep an eye on him when he is with us.”
“Ah, I see,” said Berthold. “We’ll take him to Prince Sanglant instead.”
The Eagle rose and tapped Ivar on the shoulder. “Come, then, Brother. We’re moving fast. Best you keep up with us, for if you’re lost or stumble behind, we’ll not wait.”
3
“I offer you and your company sanctuary here at Quedlinhame for as long as necessary,” said Mother Scholastica. Rosvita was standing.
The abbess was sitting with her hands spread on the table, her posture rigid, and her mouth fixed in a flat line. “Do not follow my nephew. This is my command, Sister.”
Rosvita nodded humbly. “I hear your words, Mother Scholastica. But I cannot obey. We will continue our journey in the morning, with or without your permission.”
They were alone in the room, although the doors leading into the garden stood open. A nun weeded along a row of lavender not yet in bloom. Although the sky was entirely overcast, the light was bright enough to cast shadows stretching longer and longer as the afternoon crept by. Footsteps grated on a graveled path, and Sister Petra came into view, leading Sapientia as a shepherdess would lead a lamb.
“Is this rebellion?”
“I have always served Henry faithfully, Mother Scholastica.”
Her mouth pinched. One hand balled into a fist. “Your reputation has been spotless, Sister Rosvita. Until now.”
Rosvita remained silent.
“It is a disease, spread among you who rode south into Aosta. Among those who pledge loyalty to Sanglant. I begin to think it is sorcery.”
“I pray you, Mother Scholastica, I respect and honor you. But I will not be insulted. Henry is—was—my regnant, and I served him faithfully. Now I will serve the one he named as heir.”
