Crown of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  And do not want the responsibility if I make the wrong choice, thought Ivar, looking at Sigfrid and Ermanrich, who raised their eyebrows and twisted their lips into little grimaces of speculation.

  The steward looked at Baldwin, flushed, and hurriedly returned her attention to Biscop Constance. “It would be best,” she added, without conviction. “Your Holiness.”

  “What of the boys?” said Constance, with a kind smile.

  “I received no instructions.”

  “Lady Sabella sent these men to Lavas, to find me, and yet left you no instructions as to my care should they succeed in their efforts? Considering, I might add, that I was told that the lives of two innocent boys were at stake?”

  The steward stepped next to Constance’s chair and bent her head to speak softly. Ivar sidled closer. “The lady sent the party to seek you the same day she departed with Duke Conrad and others to hunt the guivre.”

  Constance shook her head. Carefully, she took hold of the steward’s wrist in a light but firm grasp. “What mean you by this mention of a guivre?”

  As the sergeant turned away to order his men off to get drink, the steward bent until her lips were within a hand’s breadth of Constance’s ear. “There came reports that a guivre had been sighted in the forest lands west of here. It was killing people and livestock. The lady and the duke went riding, hoping to capture it. They came back mightily displeased, for they found no trace of it despite all their tramping and hunting. Then the news of the usurper came from Kassel. They left so quickly, the lady had no instructions except to bid me hold Autun safely against her return.”

  Constance glanced at Ivar. “Do you suppose she forgot me in the heat of the moment?”

  “Surely not!” cried the steward, and the sergeant looked back as she hastily straightened up and continued in a normal tone. “I must ask that you be conveyed to the lady straight away, Your Holiness! You cannot return to Lavas Holding!”

  “What news from Kassel?” asked Constance, but with the sergeant listening, the steward only shrugged.

  “It was all so confused, Your Grace. Queen Tallia was sent to Bederbor to recover her health. A determined band of rogues are causing trouble along the border to the southwest where Arconia meets the lands of both Varingia and Salia. We hear rumors of reavers with poisoned arrows harrying travelers along the roads leading east into Fesse. The usurper was anointed and crowned in Quedlinhame, Osterburg, and Gent, and parades around with an adventus as though he were not merely a bastard. Then there came this news of some manner of skirmish at Kassel. A captain loyal to Sabella sent word he was attacked by the usurper’s forces. So the lady and the duke rode out to bring him aid.”

  “Lord Geoffrey’s boys?” Constance pressed.

  The steward spoke in a forcibly cheerful voice. “In good health, together with Conrad’s newborn, the little lad we all thought would perish but is marvelous robust and thriving, God be praised. It was a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” asked Constance sharply. “Why do you say so?”

  “Him all blue and not breathing when he was born? The midwife fled, she was so fearful of being punished, because that one—Queen Tallia, that is, God bless her—throws weak whelps. Only the eldest girl lived out of the other three she bore. Yet I don’t think the midwife was at fault.”

  “It’s rare that a child born blue and not breathing can be described as robust,” remarked Constance. “What happened to make you say it was a miracle?”

  “His still body was dropped right in front of the altar. Accidentally, I mean. That man caught him, the bastard born—”

  “Sanglant?”

  “Nay, Your Grace. The one from Lavas.”

  “Ah!” Constance nodded. “Go on.”

  “Everyone said that any child dropped before the altar must be destined for the church, so God must have spared him for Her service and Her greater glory.”

  “Truth rises with the phoenix,” said Baldwin.

  The steward startled, like a rabbit spotting a hawk, and she began to weep.

  “Best we ride on,” said the sergeant. “No use waiting here. Lady Sabella was very strong with her direction: Bring the biscop to me.”

  He called to his soldiers, and they finished their mugs of drink and wiped their mouths and hurried back to pick up the chair. They hauled Constance away to a chamber in the palace where she was sequestered. Her clerics followed her, and by the time they had settled themselves for the night, they discovered that they had only closemouthed soldiers as their keepers and no servants to ask for the local gossip.

  They rode out of Autun the next morning. Many folk waited along the streets to watch as they rode past, and many of these made a sign with their hands, thumb curled around bent middle and little fingers with the other two fingers outstretched like horns on the head of an animal.

  “Truth rises with the phoenix,” they called. Some strewed flowers in front of Baldwin’s horse, while others wept and prostrated themselves as the wagon in which Constance rode rumbled past.

  Beyond Autun their party rode to the ferry, where they waited half the morning as they were borne across in stages. The clouds were high today and the light almost made Ivar squint.

  “Look there,” he said, nudging Ermanrich. “Downstream. Is that smoke?”

  The second cart arrived on the eastern shore with the last of the escort. The sergeant had also seen the smoke, which rose several leagues away beyond woodland and fields. He got his men moving eastward along the road but lingered with the rear guard as Constance’s wagon trundled out. Ivar hung back as the other clerics rode off in attendance on the wagon. The smoke had a chary black undercoating to it, and it boiled.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” said the sergeant to his trio of scouts. “Someone’s good stable is burning down, that’s what I think.”

  “Bandits?” Ivar asked, and the sergeant looked at him in surprise.

  “Weren’t you up riding with the others?”

  “I like to keep my eye out, too.”

  This sergeant was a homely fellow, thick-shouldered, thick-necked, and with a habit of speaking slowly and simply that might make a person think him thick-witted. He nodded, squinching his eyes as he studied Ivar with a frown. “Fair enough. I don’t like the look of that. Let’s move on.”

  The scouts fell into position, two at the rear and one ranging, and the sergeant urged his horse forward to catch up with the main group. It hadn’t rained recently, so the road had a good firm snap under the horses’ hooves. Clouds scudded on a wind blowing out of the northwest. The road curled around stubborn coppices tended by woodsmen and the occasional ash swale, but at length they mounted to higher ground. A meadow lying upslope of a well-worked coppice of hornbeam and oak opened with an unexpected vista of the Rhowne River Valley and its rich holdings, the ferry crossing, and the distant walls and cathedral tower of Autun.

  The ferryman’s compound was burning. Flames leaped, and smoke streamed into the heavens.

  The sergeant stared, face white. “Look!” he said hoarsely, pointing toward the river.

  Skimming low, dragons flew over the water, their eyes high and black in gleaming gold-and-orange heads and their teeth white and sharp, close to the water.

  “God save us!” said Constance. “What manner of ship are those?”

  The dragons dissolved as Ivar saw what she saw: sleek ships with painted sails and snarling stem-posts, riding high in the water though laden with bristling spears and glowering shields held by a hundred warriors in each vessel. Beyond, the fields and city seemed to lie quiet in the afternoon stillness, but he imagined horns blowing and folk bellowing out the alarm.

  “God be merciful!” cried the sergeant. “Those are the Eika, the dragon-kind. They laid waste the northern coast, but that was years ago! I thought they’d all …” His voice faded as his mouth worked, open and shut. No sound came out. He choked, coughed, and his next words cracked their paralysis.

  “Move! Move out!”
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  “What about the townspeople of Autun?” Constance asked.

  “Do you think we can fight so many, Your Grace?” he said, more with despair than anger. “Better if we get the word to those who can. Here, Johannes!” He pointed at one of his youthful soldiers. “Take a spare horse. You’ll ride, and walk at night, until you reach the lady. She must learn of this.”

  “Ivar,” said Constance. “Go with Johannes.”

  Hooves drummed from below. The rear scout galloped into view around the screen made by the trees. He was hanging over his mount’s neck, barely holding on, and as he saw them, his mouth worked but no sound came out. He slipped sideways and tumbled to the ground. An arrow angled out of the meat of his shoulder.

  “Move!” bellowed the sergeant.

  The soldiers driving the wagons whipped the cart horses forward. The sergeant rode down to the scout, grabbed the man by the arm, and tugged him over the back of his saddle.

  The riderless horse trotted along behind as the sergeant turned to follow the party. Even the pair of mules, ridden by Hathumod and Sister Eligia, caught the scent and kicked up their pace. They toiled upward, but everyone kept staring behind, seeking, listening, knowing that the enemy would race into sight at the next moment. Wind rippled in branches. Leaves flashed. The horses put on a burst of speed, anxious to move ahead.

  The sergeant caught up to the main group and thrust the reins of the loose horse into Ivar’s hands. “Go!” he said. “You and Johannes. Go! At least if the rest of us are caught, you may get the message to Lady Sabella.”

  The soldier lying over the horse groaned. Without slacking his pace the sergeant pushed him off the horse and into the second wagon. The wounded man shrieked. The road struck into woods, and as they passed under the trees, Ivar shivered. He looked back one more time.

  A pair of tall men appeared on the road far below. They did not seem to be wearing armor, but their skin gleamed. They pointed after the retreating group with their spears and shook their shields, then turned and waved their arms as though gesturing to companions still out of sight.

  “Brother Ivar!” Constance’s voice pulled him to attention. “You must ride quickly! Go!”

  The rumps of Johannes’ horses receded into shade and vanished around a bend in the road. Ivar urged his horse forward, and the spare followed eagerly. For a bit he rode alone on the shadowed path, seeing no one before or behind.

  Then a voice called him.

  “Ivar!” He looked back to see Baldwin galloping after him, holding the wounded man’s sword and scabbard. Catching up, Baldwin gave him the weapon. “Go! Go!”

  A terrible scream ripped out of the trees ahead. Both of Ivar’s horses shied, sidestepping and flattening ears. They wanted to go forward no more than they wanted to go back.

  Caught betwixt and between.

  He and Baldwin pushed on to find Johannes stalled in the middle of the road, staring at a man’s fly-ridden corpse sprawled on the road. Baldwin dismounted and bent over the body. The flesh had been gnawed, the abdomen torn open and innards devoured. The archway of ribs flashed white. The eye sockets were empty, sucked clean, and maggots and flies crawled in and out of the gaping mouth. One arm below the elbow was missing. The dead man had a dart lodged in his neck. When Baldwin jiggled the shaft, the slender arrow fell free and rolled along the dirt.

  “That’s a shade’s arrow,” said Ivar. His throat was dry, and his heart pounded.

  “What do we do?” whispered Baldwin. “Those others—the Eika—coming up from behind. This—in front.”

  “That’s days old,” said Johannes. “See how the body is torn up.”

  The rumble of wheels became audible. Ivar swung down, grabbed the dead man by the ankles, and dragged him off the road. No time to bury him. No possibility of hauling the extra weight. He shoved the limp corpse out of the way and, as he straightened, the little cavalcade came into view: two wagons, a dozen guardsmen, Biscop Constance, the wounded man, Sigfrid, Ermanrich, Hathumod, and Sister Eligia. The scouts had moved up, leaving only the sergeant trailing behind.

  A paltry, doomed retinue.

  Two soldiers had dismounted to walk at the heads of the cart horses. Hathumod stared white-faced at him.

  “Brother Ivar!” said Constance reprovingly, but then she saw the dead man tumbled in the undergrowth, and she turned her gaze away. Her face was pale, and her expression grim.

  Baldwin did not move.

  “I told you to ride!” shouted the sergeant. “Move!”

  Ivar mounted and slapped Johannes’ horse on the rump with his reins. “Let’s go!”

  The two riders pushed on, leaving the rest of the party behind. After a while, as the wind and their path twisted up a hillside, they heard shouting far behind. The sound faded at once; maybe he had only imagined it. Around them, there was nothing to see but trees, a tangled prospect of holm and oak most likely cut back a generation ago and now grown thick with young trees and vigorous undergrowth. He halted, turning in the saddle to listen, as Johannes kept riding toward a half seen switchback. Hooves drummed behind. Someone was coming up fast.

  “Come on! Come on, my lord!” cried the lad. He was so scared that he sounded indignant.

  And why not? Why shouldn’t the poor young soldier be aggrieved at fate? Why must it always be so difficult?

  “Ai, God!” Johannes squeaked with fear, slapping a hand against his throat as at a wasp. “Ayee! Ayee! It burns!”

  Ivar’s mount startled, kicking, and turned a complete circle as Ivar fought to keep his seat and get hold of the trailing lead to his spare. All this passed in an instant. He lifted his gaze to see Johannes, about thirty paces ahead now, topple from his saddle and tumble gracelessly onto the hard path.

  Above, a creature stepped out from the shadows onto the road. It had a shapely woman’s body but the head of a snarling dog. Ivar was shaking so hard he could not calm his horses, and Johannes’ pair bolted, one downslope too fast for him to grab, and the other only four steps when it stopped short as Johannes’ weight dragged it to a halt. One leg had caught in the reins, but the young soldier lay there so limp it was apparent he was unconscious, or dead.

  Below, a rider with an extra horse burst into view. A gust of wind wailed along the slope, bringing the distant taint of smoke up from along the river. The dog-woman cast back her head—he could see the curve of her smooth, humanlike throat—and sniffed, then yelped words that meant nothing to him and leaped back into the cover of the trees.

  Below, the rider snagged the loose mare that had gotten away.

  “Ai, God!” Baldwin cried, pounding up. “What was that?”

  “Shades!” Ivar croaked. “Shadows. Evil things! What are you doing here?”

  Baldwin gulped but could not answer. Ivar swung off his horse and handed the reins of his pair to Baldwin before dashing up the path to kneel beside Johannes. With an effort, he got the leg free, but shook his head.

  “Dead. Broke his neck, I suppose.” He lifted a dart off the path. “Just a scratch.” He tossed it aside and dragged the corpse into a thicket of lush honeysuckle.

  Out of the empty woods a horn call rose, shrill and insistent. He grabbed Johannes’ horse, mounted, and started riding. Baldwin pressed up behind him and, as they came to the switchback, they halted in order to tie the spare mounts one behind the next.

  “There’s a break just there,” said Ivar. They tied the horses to a tree and pushed through the underbrush to a rocky outcropping that rode above the treetops. The wind roared off an escarpment, which plunged the height of five or six men, the face giving a vista of forest into the south, but they stared west, back the way they had come. They saw a haze on the horizon, and obscuring trees. Below, it was possible to see the last clearing through which they had passed, with its pair of lichen-stained boulders and its open space grown with green grass. Here came a score of Eika jogging in tight formation, pushing up from the lowlands. Light winked above them: a shower of arrows raining out of the woods. T
hese fell among the Eika, and perhaps some struck, but the dragon-men did not slacken their pace at all, and none fell to the attack. Animal-headed creatures darted out into the clearing and threw flashing javelins and darted away again into the shelter of the trees.

  “Best go,” said Baldwin, tugging on Ivar’s arm.

  “God have mercy,” he said.

  They traveled that day at a bruising pace, speaking little. One of the spare mounts threw a shoe and began to limp, so they let it go. When it seemed they would blow the horses if they did not stop, they rested near a stream where there was also some grazing, but they pushed on soon after until it grew too dark to travel without light.

  Ivar led them off the track until he felt sure no one could see them from the road.

  “We could lash twigs together, make torches to walk by,” suggested Baldwin as they rubbed down the horses.

  “Light will give away our position. If they catch us, we’re dead.” They got the horses settled. Ivar threw down his cloak, and sat on it. “Why did you come after us?”

  Baldwin smiled placidly. Somehow, miraculously, the dregs of twilight filtering through the trees managed to illuminate his perfect face and solemn expression, as serious as an angel. “Biscop Constance told me to hurry after and catch up with you.”

  “What of Ermanrich and Sigfrid and Hathumod?”

  “She ordered me to go.”

  “Why?”

  Baldwin sat beside Ivar. After a moment, he touched Ivar’s knuckles, a fleeting brush that made Ivar shiver and remember old times. He bent his head, as though he was ashamed.

  “Ivar.” He hesitated.

  There was so much they had never spoken of, one to the other: the affection they had once shared, the changes that time had carved in them, the sacrifice Baldwin had made because of his love for Ivar and the others. Ivar’s rescue of Baldwin that Baldwin had, by his unexpected cleverness, turned into a successful rescue of Constance. Only, of course, it had all fallen apart in the end.