by Kate Elliott
“I do not, Your Excellency,” she lied. “My comrade and I came here to St. Asella’s today because we were told we might hear the lesson delivered in Wendish, which our souls craved to hear after so many months in a foreign land.”
“Ah.” He dabbed a smear of blood off his forefinger onto the deacon’s robe and rose. “Eagle.” He indicated Rufus. “Certain of the king’s soldiers wait outside. See that these criminals are taken away to the regnant’s dungeon. I will send clerics from the queen’s schola to take away this poor deacon’s body and prepare it for burial.”
At the Hearth he studied the holy lamp set on the bare stone floor, the scattered vessels, and the altar cloth spilled carelessly over them. “A grave crime,” he said as he picked up the altar cloth and the vessels and set all to rights, smoothing the gold-trimmed cloth down over the Hearth and placing holy lamp and precious vessels in the precise arrangement on its surface, reflecting the glory of the Chamber of Light, which awaits all faithful souls.
“It is a grave crime to assault and conspire against those who serve God and the regnant.” His gaze marked her, who was waiting only for his permission to go. He had beautiful eyes, a fine, dazzling light blue, but in their depths she saw a splinter of ice. “Isn’t it, Hanna?”
“Your Excellency.” It was all she could say.
“You will accompany me. Their majesties King Henry and Queen Adelheid will wish to hear your report. And so will I.”
2
Hersford Monastery had the slightly run-down look of an estate that has been neglected by an incompetent steward, but as Ivar and his companions approached the main gate, they saw scaffolding around the church tower and men laboring on its ladders and platforms, whitewashing the walls. Beyond the low double palisade that fenced off the monastic buildings from the surrounding estate, a group of lay brothers bound new thatch on the roof of the monks’ dormitory. Outside these walls men sawed and hammered, constructing benches and tables, while a trio of laborers built a kiln with bricks.
The gatekeeper had big hands, a big nose, and a relentlessly cheerful disposition once he realized he had visitors of noble lineage. “Come in, come in, friends. We’ll be glad to hear tidings from the east.” He called to a scrawny boy climbing in an apple tree. “Tell the guest-master I’m bringing visitors up.”
The child raced ahead. They followed more slowly, since the gatekeeper had a pronounced limp. His infirmity had not weakened his tongue. “The old abbot died last year, may he rest peacefully in God’s hands. Father Ortulfus has come new to us this spring, and though I do not like to speak ill of the dead, I will say that he has been setting things right, for I fear the monastery got run down. Father Ortulfus has even sent to Darre to see if a craftsman can be found to repair the unicorn fountain, which I’m sure you have heard of.”
“I fear we have not—” began Ivar, but the gatekeeper chattered on as he directed them to a side gate that opened into an enclosure surrounded by a high fence and populated by a tidy herb garden, a gravel courtyard, and three square log blockhouses, each one freshly plastered.
“Nay? You’ll see it soon enough. Here my lady must retire, for women aren’t allowed within the monastery walls. Father Ortulfus has brought his cousin to preside over the guesthouse and with her a few servingwomen to ensure the comfort of any ladies who may come by in traveling parties or with the king’s progress. Alas, under Father Bardo’s abbacy I fear that women were let walk as they wished in the monastery itself, but that shan’t be happening now.”
A pretty young woman with a fair complexion and an almost insipidly sweet smile emerged from one of the cottages. “What have you brought us, Brother Felicitus?” She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. “We haven’t had a visitor in ages, although I fear, my lady, that you look in need of a bath.”
She clapped her hands. Three equally young women rushed out in her wake, followed at a more stately pace by an elderly matron who had the visage of a guard dog, ready to strike first and growl later.
“I am Lady Beatrix,” continued the first girl. “Cousin of Father Ortulfus. He’s my guardian now that my parents are dead, and he’s brought me here until—Oh!”
“Oh!” echoed her young companions.
They had seen Baldwin.
“Best you be getting on, Brother Felicitus,” said the matron threateningly, setting herself between her charges and temptation.
Hathumod stepped forward with a martial gleam in her eye. “I thank you for your welcome, Lady Beatrix. I am Hathumod. My grandmother was a count in the marchlands. I was first a novice at Quedlinhame—”
“How come you here, then, my lady?” interrupted Lady Beatrix, although she hadn’t taken her gaze off Baldwin, who stared soulfully at a table set under an awning and laden with wine, bread, and cheese. “Who are your companions?”
“I pray you, friends.” Brother Felicitus cleared his throat for emphasis. “Let us retire to a more appropriate place.”
“I’m so hungry,” said Baldwin plaintively. “We haven’t eaten for two days.”
Lady Beatrix dashed to the table and brought Baldwin an entire loaf of white bread, still smelling of the oven.
“I thank you,” he said, turning the full force of his limpid gaze on her innocent face. Ivar thought she might swoon, or perhaps he was the one who was dizzy because the bread smelled so good and he was really so desperately hungry.
“Come, come.” Brother Felicitus herded his charges toward the gate. “Let us not linger here, but if you will come with me I will see that you are fed.”
As they retreated, Hathumod begin to speak. “How I came here is a long tale. If you have the patience for it, it will change you utterly.”
“No tale can be too long if it is also exciting,” retorted Beatrix, “for we bide ungodly quiet here. We get so few visitors—”
“She’s very young,” said Brother Felicitus as he closed the gate, cutting them off from the women’s enclosure. The men followed him through a gate in the log fence marking out monastic ground from the unhallowed buildings set up between the inner and outer fence. “But her parents are dead, her elder brother rode east with Princess Sapientia, and her elder sister died at the battle to recover Gent. Duchess Liutgard is her distant kinswoman, but the duchess has been called south by the king on his great expedition to Aosta, so it fell to her cousin Ortulfus to give her guidance.” Having established his abbot’s noble credentials, he felt free to eye Baldwin distrustfully, as if he feared Baldwin intended to lure poor young Lady Beatrix into a life of debauchery. Baldwin was too busy tearing up the loaf into four equal portions to notice.
“I feel sure Father Ortulfus is a Godly man,” said Ivar.
“So he is. Here is the laborers’ dormitory.” Felicitus indicated a long hall with a porch set outside the inner wall. “Those who are servants of the abbot, or of the king—” He nodded at the two Lions. “—reside here. Our circatore, Brother Lallo, will take care of you. Here he comes.”
Brother Lallo was brawny and immaculately groomed. For a circatore—the monk set in charge over the manual laborers—his hands were remarkably clean.
“Can they work?” he demanded, looking Gerulf and Dedi over and not appearing to like what he saw. They were all unkempt. “I’ve a full house these days, for it’s troubled times as you know, Brother Felicitus. I wish you would have consulted me first.”
“And risked sending them down the road to Oerbeck where they’ll get no more than a thin broth for their supper? We are still the king’s monastery, Brother, and God’s house, and have an obligation to travelers.”
“And vagabonds, evidently!” replied Brother Lallo sourly. “At least they don’t have dogs with them! Come this way, then. You’re stout-looking fellows, I’ll give you that.”
“We are Lions in the king’s service,” said Gerulf, with real annoyance.
Lallo blinked. “Why aren’t you with the king?”
Dedi seemed about to speak, but Gerulf signed him to silence.
“That is truly a long tale, and a cursed strange one, for I’ve seen such things as few would believe—” He broke off, rubbing his throat. “Ach, well. My throat’s too dry to talk much.”
“Come, come, then,” said Lallo eagerly. “We can find you mead. There’ll be porridge and apples for supper. A long tale would be welcome here.”
As Gerulf and Dedi walked off to the laborers’ dormitory, Baldwin gave Ivar, Ermanrich, and Sigfrid their share of the bread. Ivar wolfed his down before they reached the inner gate, but all it did was make him hungrier.
At the inner gate Brother Felicitus handed them over to the rotund guest-master, who saw them washed and fitted with clean robes appropriate to their status and brought them to the abbot’s table just in time for the evening’s feast.
Father Ortulfus was young, vigorous, and handsome. He had a sarcastic eye but a gleam of humor in his expression as he rose to welcome his guests. The dozen monks seated at the abbot’s table gaped at Baldwin, who had cleaned up nicely. “My spies brought news of your arrival. There are places for you on these humble benches.”
Since all the furniture in the abbot’s dining room was elaborately carved and painted, as befit the son of a noble house, Ivar merely smiled. “You are most gracious, Father Ortulfus. We have traveled a most strange road. I am Ivar—”
“—son of Count Harl of the North Mark and his late wife, Lady Herlinda,” finished Ortulfus. “Before I became abbot, I had the honor of being a member of Biscop Constance’s schola. I will not soon forget the trial of Hugh of Austra before an assembled council in Autun. Nor, I suppose, will you, Brother Ivar.”
Ivar knew his fair complexion branded him, since his blushes could never be hidden. His cheeks burned. “Nay, I suppose I will not.”
Baldwin had already found a seat next to a slender monk of aristocratic bearing whose expression was, alas, not at all pure as he offered to share his platter, on which lay a steaming and handsomely spiced whole chicken. Ermanrich and Sigfrid held back at the door, waiting for Ivar’s reaction.
“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.
“I pray you, Father, we’ve run out of oil for the Hearth lamp.”
“Go on.”
The sacrist left, closing the door behind him.
Father Ortulfus went on. “After the trial at Autun, the court supposed that you had escaped Margrave Judith’s clutches with the aid of Prince Ekkehard, whose preference for Lord Baldwin had become, shall we say, well known. When we heard that Prince Ekkehard had married the new margrave, Gerberga, those of us who remembered the trial assumed that the marriage was in some measure payment for his earlier theft of Judith’s young husband. So you must imagine that your appearance here, at this late date, raises more questions than it answers.”
“Do sit down,” said Baldwin’s companion with an unctuous smile. “Won’t you have more honey cake?”
Baldwin stubbornly remained standing.
“You need not fear that any of us are loyal to the kinfolk of Margrave Judith,” added Father Ortulfus. “We are all first and foremost servants of our most gracious and magnificent biscop and duke, Constance.”
Both Ermanrich and Sigfrid looked at Ivar.
Ivar rose slowly. “Baldwin, I pray you. Sit down.” With a pretty frown, Baldwin sat. “Is this some trick, Father Ortulfus? We have traveled far and by strange paths, and we have witnessed miracles, not least of which was that God delivered us from the Quman. We have been given by God the obligation to
bring the truth to those of you who still linger in darkness, for it has come to us to know that the church has taught a falsehood these many years. For God so loved the world that She gave to us Her only Son, that He should take upon himself the measure of our sins.”
Ermanrich took up the litany. “He came before the Empress Thaissania, she of the Mask, and He would not bow down before her, for He knew that only God is worthy of worship. The empress had him flayed, as they did do to criminals in those days, and His heart was cut out and thrown into the courtyard, where it was torn into a hundred pieces by the dogs. Aren’t we, ourselves, those dogs?”
“I knew it!” thundered the prior. “Such babblings as we’ve heard from vagabonds this past year could not have sprung fully grown out of nowhere. Here’s the plague’s root!”
“A novice poisoned by heresy.” The abbot had elegant fury to spare. His disdain and disgust were a well-honed weapon. “So you were accused when you came forward at the trial of Hugh of Austra, Brother Ivar. Do you and your companions deny that the Mother and Father of Life brought forth the universe through the Word? Do you still profess this vile heresy of the Redemption?”
“It isn’t heresy! The king’s own sister, who is abbess at Quedlinhame, ordered Sigfrid’s tongue cut off as punishment because he kept speaking the truth. Yet he speaks with a purer voice than you or I, because of the miracle, when the phoenix rose out of the fire. Why would God have restored his voice if he spoke only falsehoods?”
“It was the sign of the blessed Daisan.” Sigfrid’s expression shone as he remembered that awesome moment when the phoenix’s wings had unfurled and it had risen in glory into the dawn, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. “For the blessed Daisan also rose from death to become Life for us all.”
“You are still polluted,” said Father Ortulfus. “If you will walk with God, then walk in silence and free your heart from the Enemy’s grasp. Let there be no more of these tales, which spread like a plague upon the Earth!”