He did not even have to say anything. She would have died rather than cause a scene. Mistress Birta emerged from the kitchen with the meat, dressed and wrapped since it was the frater’s portion. She greeted Hugh but he replied with a monosyllable. Hanna appeared from the back room and watched as Liath took the meat from Birta and then retreated toward the door. Hugh walked two paces behind her, as if he was driving her. The traveler looked up. He was a grizzled, weather-beaten man wearing a fur-lined riding coat. He studied the scene with interest. Liath felt his gaze on her back as she left.
Outside, Hugh hit her. At least he was wearing gloves, so the blow did not sting quite so badly. “Did I give you leave to come down here?”
“I had to fetch the meat—”
He slapped her again. Unable to help herself, she covered her cheek with a hand. Lady, it hurt. From the shadowed eaves of the inn came a movement, stifled; someone was watching them.
“You will ask my permission. Any time you go anywhere. Wait here.” Hugh went back inside. Liath waited.
Hanna crept out from the side of the inn: “Liath—”
The door opened and Hugh came out, Mistress Birta following behind him as if she were his bonded servant. “Of course, Frater,” she was saying with her hands placed just so and her expression as fixed with good cheer as any image carved into wood, “I’ll have my boy Karl deliver everything from now on.” She cast a piercing glance toward Hanna, and Hanna retreated hastily back around the corner of the inn.
“Come, Liath.” Hugh grabbed her by the arm, his fingers as sharp as talons, and dragged her forward. She shook his arm off and kept up on her own. He said nothing more, the whole walk back. Nothing more the entire day, but he dogged her movements everywhere, and he hit her any time he thought she might be getting the least rest or respite from the cold.
She slept fitfully that night. The next day, and the day after, passed the same. And the next, and the next, until the days blended together into one seamless blur of cold misery and she lost track of time passing. The weather remained cold, but it was not yet bitterly cold. She settled her dirty heap of straw well in among the pigs. Trotter liked her best and allowed her to sleep huddled up against his rough back.
Once, brushing down the horses, she heard Hanna’s voice outside. She ran to the door. There stood Hugh surveying Hanna with coldest contempt.
“Your young brother is to deliver goods, no one else,” he said. “So I arranged it with your mother.”
“I beg you, Frater, if you would only let me speak with—”
“I told you to go.”
Hanna turned and saw Liath.
“Do you intend to challenge me, girl?” Hugh demanded.
There was nothing Hanna could do but leave.
“Get back to your work,” Hugh snapped to Liath.
She slunk back inside the stable, denied even the solace of watching Hanna walk away.
One early morning Ivar appeared on his mare. He was bundled in a bulky fur-lined cape, his face white with cold and distress.
She was chopping wood. She stopped, staring; she had not seen a familiar face for so long that at first she thought she was dreaming.
“Liath.” He spoke low and fast. “Come with me. I’ve got a plan. Gero will help to hide you, and then we’ll—” He flung up his head, listening. From inside, Hugh called out to her.
She ran to Ivar, clutched his hand, jumped to get her belly awkwardly on the horse’s back and swung her leg all the way over. Ivar turned the mare and kicked it forward. It was a sturdy creature, broad of beam, and it seemed able to carry both of them though it could not manage any gait except a jarring trot.
They made it most of the way to his father’s holding before Hugh caught up to them on his bay gelding. He rode past the struggling mare and pulled around in front before drawing his sword.
“Are you armed, boy, or are you smarter than I thought?”
Ivar was alarmed only with a dagger. He stopped.
“Liath, dismount,” said Hugh.
Liath dismounted.
“Liath,” protested Ivar, “you can’t just—”
“I have not done with you yet,” said Hugh to Ivar. “You can come with me and present your case to Count Harl or I can simply present your folly to him by myself. I don’t care. Liath. Walk beside my horse.”
She walked, head down. At least walking had the benefit of keeping her almost warm. She stumbled once, not from fatigue but from sheer despair.
She could not look up as they crossed over the ditch and through the palisade and into the great open yard of Count Harl’s castle. She stared at her feet, at Hugh’s feet, which she followed up the broad path that led to the lord’s hall, up a stone stairway, into the count’s chambers. She heard voices, speaking her name, speaking Ivar’s name. She could not bear to see their staring faces.
