“Had we known, we might have taken him then and gone on our way more quickly. These delays are a trouble to us. I have come all the way from southern Salia, leaving my assistants behind me to oversee the work necessary there. I am on my way to Alba.”
He looked Alain over, mouth tight, expression doubtful. “This one? This is the man we were sent to recover?” He shook his head, but his skeptical gaze touched the hounds sitting faithfully on either side of the door. Not even Father Ortulfus forbade the hounds any chamber they wished to enter. All of them had discovered that if the hounds were let be, they behaved peaceably enough. “Are these his hounds?”
“They are mine,” Alain replied. “Who has sent you, Brother?”
“You are bold, speaking before you are spoken to.”
“I beg your pardon, Brother, but it is obvious that I have been spoken of without my knowledge. Prior Ratbold and I are only just returned from a distant standing where we have watched over sheep suspected of carrying the murrain.”
The other clerics shuddered, wringing hands, whispering.
“Yes, there is a murrain abroad in the lands south of here,” said Father Ortulfus, “so these good clerics report. They passed skulls set on posts and whole steadings burned out. It’s a terrible plague, although some say it’s the work of soul-murdering bandits. But I have not yet heard your report, Brother. Prior Ratbold, what of Farmer Hosed?”
“He burned two of the sheep.” Ratbold glanced at Alain, then at the clerics, before returning his gaze to the abbot. “But the others … the other ewes and the lambs.” He hesitated, unwilling to speak further in the presence of strangers.
“Go on.”
Words came raggedly. “There is no murrain on our lands.”
Ortulfus had no experience concealing his feelings and thoughts; born of an ancient and noble lineage, placed in a position of power at a youthful age, he had never learned to school his expressions. His look now, staring first with disbelief at Ratbold before shifting to regard Alain, betrayed his innermost heart.
The intensity of Ortulfus’ gaze startled Alain. They do not want to give me up. At Lavas he had been cast out; no one had wanted him, although he had been accepted by the Lions because of the king’s imprimatur and, he hoped, his own hard work. Adica and her village had taken him in as one of their own, but he had been deposited there by a shaman of great power and terrible wisdom. Here at Hersford he had been accepted out of charity; he had believed himself suffered more than loved.
Had he misunderstood the good brothers? What man would smile sadly as Ortulfus did now, as if searching for a question to an answer he already knew?
“Brother Alain, these honorable clerics come from the skopos in Darre. It is their wish that you journey to Darre to meet with the skopos.”
Their wish, Ortulfus said, but in his tone Alain heard otherwise.
Their command.
“Why would the skopos wish to meet with me?”
“We do not ask,” said Brother Severus coldly. “We only obey. We will leave in the morning.”
Ortulfus gestured to Ratbold and his other attendants, indicating that they should go about their business, see about supper, return to their work. “You may go, Brother Alain, and make any preparations necessary.”
Alain considered objecting. That powerful compulsion to seek Stronghand still rode him, yet the pragmatic voice of Aunt Bel whispered in his mind.
If it is true that Stronghand is in Alba, how will you cross the sea with no goods or coin to trade for your passage?
He was a pauper, living on the sufferance of the church. Surely the skopos had a powerful reason to seek him out. Perhaps she had knowledge of the magical forces that had cast him here. He would make her heed him. Once her belief was secured, all others must believe him as well.
“I will go then, Father, with your blessing.”
Ortulfus shook his head, that tight, ironic smile still caught on his lips. “You have my blessing, Brother Alain. I pray you, think as well of us as you can.”
“How could I think otherwise? You took me in when I was mad with grief. You have sheltered me. I pray none of you come to any harm.”
Father Ortulfus steadied himself on a chair, lowering his gaze humbly. His eyes brimmed with tears.
There was nothing else to say. Alain whistled the hounds to order and left the chamber, but as he walked away he heard them speaking still.
“He is not what I expected,” said Brother Severus, voice carrying, perhaps, farther than he meant it to.
“Nay, Your Excellency,” retorted Father Ortulfus boldly. “It is not for us to judge.”
