“God knows Father Hugh was arrogant,” said Ortulfus as his retinue of monastic officials and highly placed brother monks watched avidly. “I suppose it comes of being the son of a margrave.” He glanced at Baldwin before smiling mordantly at Ivar. “I admit, Brother Ivar, that I wasn’t sorry to see you stand against Father Hugh, even if it was only because that sorcerer they spoke of had enchanted you as well.”
“Perhaps she did,” retorted Ivar, stung and flattered at the same time, “or perhaps Hugh was lying. I could tell you—”
“And I trust you will,” interrupted the abbot smoothly, “but I beg you to take drink and food first, for you look famished. When Biscop Constance raised me to the abbacy of Hersford Monastery, she strictly enjoined me to see that travelers were always well cared for. Will you not share a platter with me, Brother Ivar?”
No one could refuse such an honor. In this way, the four visitors were separated from each other and each given to one of the abbot’s officials to entertain. Wine flowed freely. The abbot did not stint when it came time to eat. The savory chicken was all Ivar could have hoped for, and it was succeeded by a clear broth to cleanse the palate, after which the meat course arrived, a side of roasted beef so heavy it took two servants to carry the platter. Three types of pudding followed the meat, each one richer than what came before, and there were also apples, pears, plums, cherries, and the sticky honey cakes common to feast days.
As the meal wore on, Ivar realized that this astounding repast was, indeed, in honor of a saint’s day. A young monk with a face so undistinguished that one hesitated to look twice at him sang most sweetly various hymns in praise of St. Ingrith, she who was patron of weavers and benefactor to every person who has faced down and wrestled with an unexpected setback.
The battle against the Quman had been fought in late Aogoste. The feast day of St. Ingrith was celebrated in late Setentre, almost a full month after the equinox. Impossibly, in the two days since they had escaped the Quman, over one month had passed here at Hersford Monastery. Impossibly, they had traveled from the eastern borderlands all the way to the heart of Wendar by walking into—and out of—a barrow.
“You said you had a strange tale to tell us,” said Father Ortulfus. “I confess myself prey to the sin of curiosity, for I’m thinking that your handsome companion is the infamous young bridegroom of Margrave Judith, the same lad who vanished the night after Hugh of Austra’s trial.”
Although he hadn’t appeared to be paying attention to anything but his food, Baldwin leaped to his feet, ready to bolt. “I won’t go back to her!”
Ortulfus laughed in surprise. “Truly, you will not. Can it be you don’t know that she was killed in a battle against the Quman three years ago?”
The sickly sweet scent of plum wine made Ivar queasy. The infirmarian burped. The singer faltered and fell silent, and every man there turned to watch the abbot and his guest.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Ivar, pushing away his cup of plum wine. “We saw Margrave Judith lead her troops into battle against the Quman not one month ago, under the command of Princess Sapientia and Prince Bayan.”
The monks at table set down spoons and knives as they glanced nervously, or meaningfully, toward Father Ortulfus. Ivar studied them. Each man wore robes and a sigil to identify his place within the monastic order. The abbot wore an ivory Circle of Unity incised with perfectly articulated scenes in miniature from the life of the blessed Daisan. Beside him sat the rotund guest-master with his cloak pinned by a brooch in the shape of a wine barrel, signifying hospitality. The abbot’s trusted second-in-command, the prior; wore a dozen keys of all shapes and sizes on a gold chain around his neck. The infirmarian had his caduceus, the cellarer his silver spoon, the chief scribe his pen, the novice master a stylus, and the sacrist a little golden vessel representing the oil used to light the holy altar. Even the servants, tending the braziers set in each corner to warm the room, wore brooches of bronze wire twisted into brooms, although with their burly shoulders and military bearing they looked as if they had only recently come from fighting in the wars.
“My friend,” said Father Ortulfus, measuring his words, “Prince Bayan has been dead these two years, killed at the battle of the Veser River. It’s a long road from the marchlands here to Hersford, one that can scarcely have been traversed in a month even by such stout fellows as you.” He moved his wine cup a hand’s width to the right.
A servingman entered, bent to whisper in the sacrist’s ear, and stood back to wait. With a nod of apology, the sacrist rose.
