His voice, when he spoke again, confirmed his status. It was too high for a true man. “I learn by the writings of the Dariyan physician Galen?, she of old days but great learning. This I follow. A man with such a wound must rest many weeks in a dry, warm place. The wound must keep clean. The man must—” He broke off and made eating gestures with a hand. “—ah—take broth and other food good in the stomach. His body will heal, or it will not heal. We aid. God choose.” He drew the Circle at his chest and bowed his head to show his submission to God’s will.
Villam’s right arm lay folded across his chest. Henry took it now, and the old man’s eyes fluttered open and focused, but he did not speak. Henry brushed away tears.
“You must go to Kassel, Helmut, and there recover your health,” said Henry softly. “I march on Autun to restore my sister to her biscophric.” He leaned forward and kissed the old man gently on either cheek, the kiss of peace, and rose.
This interlude had calmed him outwardly. The king nodded to the physician, who in the Eastern way touched his forehead to the ground.
Outside, Henry turned to Rosvita. “Let Sabella wait,” he said in a low, intense voice that betrayed the rage still boiling within him. “Let her wonder, while we ride to Autun and I refuse to see her.”
Rosvita smiled slightly. Henry had indeed returned to his senses. How quickly he turned the tables. Now, rather than Liutgard keeping Sabella from him, everyone would speak of Henry’s anger being so great that he could not bring himself to look his sister in the face. That was, of course, much more effective.
But there was one question she had to ask, though she dreaded it. “You will not ride to Gent?”
His jaw tightened. He clasped his hands behind his back, as if holding them there was the only way to control himself. “Two-thirds of this army is dead or wounded. I will restore Constance, and more besides, and then we will have the summer to raise an army. Gent must hold firm until autumn.” His eyes flashed with anger. “And Sabella will learn what it means to raise her hand against me a second time.”
4
HENRY and his retinue camped outside Autun for three days before Biscop Helvissa worked up enough courage to open the gates and let them in.
Alain watched from a vantage point above Autun as the great gates swung open and the people of Autun swept out with wild rejoicing to welcome Constance back to the city.
“Henry will not leave Helvissa as biscop for long,” said Lavastine. He stood beside Alain, a strange enough occurrence in itself, and together they stared down at what remained of Henry’s army and of Sabella’s rebellion. For the last many days, as they had marched west to Autun and then camped here, out of sight, Alain had seen groups of men fleeing westward, the remains of the men-at-arms levied from the lands controlled by Sabella, Duke Rodulf, and the other lords who had come under their sway. Fleeing westward; fleeing back to their homes. They had work to do, after all, in the fields. The time for spring sowing was long past. Now they must hope that summer would be long and the harvest delayed and that their families had been able to plant something against winter’s hunger. Now they must hope for a good crop of winter wheat and rye for next year.
Besides Henry’s army, and the retinues of the great lords who remained in Henry’s custody, only Lavastine’s company remained intact. He had sent Sergeant Fell on ahead with the infantry, for the count and his people also had fields to tend and next winter to survive. Miraculously, none in his company had taken any serious wounds. All would return to their families.
But Lavastine had remained behind with his twenty mounted soldiers, and he had shadowed Henry’s progress to Autun and now waited here. Alain did not know why Lavastine waited or what he meant to do. All Alain knew was that something had changed radically. Now he slept in Lavastine’s tent, on a decent pallet, and he was fed the same food that the count ate; he had been given a fine linen tunic to wear instead of his old ragged wool tunic, now much worn and patched.
“Come,” said Lavastine, turning away as Henry’s banner vanished into the city. “We will return to my tent.”
They went, the hounds leaping around them, in fine good spirits this beautiful day. Alain was troubled. He still had nightmares about Agius. If only he had saved the frater. But he had not. Agius had sacrificed himself—and for what? Agius did not love King Henry. He had acted against Sabella and Antonia, not for Henry, though his action had saved the king.
Ai, Lady. If only he had the courage, but he did not. He had stood by while Lackling was murdered, because he had feared Antonia’s power. He had said nothing after he had witnessed the feeding of some poor innocent to the guivre. He had accused no one—though surely the word of a freeholder’s boy would never be listened to by the nobly born. He had not even thought to throw himself in front of the guivre at the battle; that he had managed to kill it was only because of Agius’ willingness to sacrifice himself for the good of others.
