Prince of Dogs

by Kate Elliott

  The murmur of voices sounded beyond the door. It cracked, swaying open, and Brother Methodius stepped outside. A moment later he returned together with the sister guest-master, a normally unflappable woman who now looked flustered.

  “I pray your pardon for this interruption, Mother,” said the sister guest-master, glancing at the novices with a frown.

  “You would not come if you had no reason to. What is it?”

  “You know of our guests, who sent a servant ahead this morning to warn of their coming?”

  Mother Scholastica nodded. She took up her owl feather quill and set it to lie parallel to the parchment leaves on which she had been writing. “All was ready for them, as befit their rank?”

  “Of course, Mother!”

  The abbess glanced up, evidently startled by this evidence that the guest-master was so shaken by the turmoil that had driven her here, to this study, that she could not respond with humor to this mild sally. “Rest easy, Sister. I have no doubt they, and their mistress, return to the king’s progress. Indeed!” She looked at Brother Methodius and as one mind with two bodies they looked together toward the closed door that let onto the sickroom of the old queen. “She can take Tallia back with her.”

  “And Ivar as well,” added Methodius, “since she will eventually return east. Then we can charge her with the lad’s safety, and her own people will make sure he reaches St. Walaricus safely.”

  “Yes. I will warn her myself of the heresy, and she will know to watch out for it and to keep them isolated from those weak of heart who might be tempted.”

  Still Ivar heard voices outside, one louder than the rest, impatient and startlingly loud in the quiet of the cloistered grounds where silence and humility reigned.

  The sister guest-master gestured helplessly toward the door, even now swaying open again. “But she waits outside, Mother. Now. I could not dissuade her though I told her you were in the midst of a conference of grave importance. Though no other would be so brash …” Here she faltered, recalling prudence and the strictures of a woman sworn to the church. “She claims to have other business—urgent business—with you.”

  “With me?” It was so rare to see Mother Scholastica surprised that Ivar forgot for an instant his own troubles and his own desires. Urgent business?

  The door was flung open. She had not waited outside. Ai, Lady, had she no respect for the authority of the church at all?

  She came in at the head of a troop of servants, lords, ladies, and richly dressed stewards, a veritable herd of them. All laughed and chattered and then, belatedly, recalled the respect due to a formidable abbess who was also the sister of the king. All bowed in some manner, or knelt as need be. All but her. Ivar stared, mouth agape.

  Oh, God,” whispered Baldwin beside him, his voice barely audible. “God, I pray You, spare me this.”

  She was a great lady of middle years, a fine noblewoman dressed in great state, almost as if she were a king’s sister herself. She had height, strength, vigor, and much silver in her hair; no doubt she had children older than the young men kneeling on the floor, and perhaps a grandchild besides. She was not unhandsome, and she wore the arrogance of a great prince of the realm as easily as she wore a light summer cloak, trimmed with a cunning embroidery of birds and flowers, over her riding tunic and gold-braided leggings, but she did not look particularly likable. No doubt she cared little whether she was liked; nobles such as she demanded respect and the honor due to their position, nothing more, nothing less.

  “Who is it?” hissed Ermanrich from Ivar’s other side.

  “Margrave Judith,” said Mother Scholastica curtly. She did not incline her head in greeting. Margrave Judith made no obeisance.

  Baldwin made a soft choking noise, as though a bone had caught in his throat. He had gone pale—although in Baldwin not even fear could dim his unfortunate beauty.

  “I greet you,” continued Mother Scholastica in the same crisp fashion, “and offer you the hospitality of Quedlinhame. You are here on your way to King Henry’s progress? I fear Queen Mathilda is too ill to receive visitors.”

  “I am grieved to hear it and I will pray for her quick recovery.” Margrave Judith spoke with the tone of a woman who always gets what she wants, when she wants it. “But I have other business at Quedlinhame. Indeed, a matter dear to my heart for I am certainly now old enough and powerful enough and with heirs enough to suit myself in such a matter.”

  Hugh’s mother. Ivar could see nothing of the son in her except in height and in the almost contemptuous imperiousness with which she regarded the abbess.

  Baldwin stirred beside him like a leaf shaken in a strong wind.

  Mother Scholastica lifted a hand, palm up, to encourage the margrave to go on, but instead the margrave turned and, as a basilisk fixes its prey with a fateful gaze before it strikes, she looked directly at Baldwin.

  “I have come,” she said, “for my bridegroom.”

  Baldwin burst into tears.

  6

  LAVASTINE had chosen to camp on a low hill about a league from Gent. He stood with a hand on Alain’s shoulder as they looked out over fields long since gone to riot with half-grown wheat and barley struggling to lift their heads above weeds and grass. Herds of cattle and sheep could be seen in the distance, but all had been moved a good way from Lavastine’s position. The Eika knew they were here.

  “Do you think the Eika will let us wait?”

  Lavastine did not reply at once. Below, the soldiers had started digging a trench about halfway up the hill. The ring of axes sounded from above them where, at the level height of the hill, a copse of trees was being chopped down.

  “Look there.” Lavastine indicated the lay of fields before them and the distant herds. “They’ve been grazed extensively. The Eika have turned all this good farmland into pasture. Strange, that they are like to us in many ways and yet so unlike.” The eastern shore lay gray-blue, with clouds streaking the horizon and tendrils of mist streaming up along the river’s bank especially around the distant city walls and the square cathedral tower. “Come.”

  “Father, is it wise for me to attend a war council? What if the Eika prince sees my life in his dreams just as I see his in the hours when I sleep?”

  Behind Lavastine the sun sank toward the horizon, demarked here by the tops of trees ranged along the ridgetops that signaled the start of hilly country lying above the river plain. Fires burned, smoke curling up into the sky, a clear beacon of their presence. Alain smelled meat cooking and with that sudden sharp dislocation of his senses, he could hear the hiss of the fire and taste the juices dripping down to snap and sizzle on wood burned down into red-hot coals. Flies swarmed over offal from the slaughter of cattle, and he twitched and tried to brush them off his arms before he stopped himself; the trash heap was well out of sight of the count’s pavilion. Fifth Brother had given him the gift of preternaturally keen senses—just as he had, with that exchange of blood so many months ago, given Alain the ability to dream snatches of his life.

  Lavastine had been staring eastward, examining the city, which was now almost lost in a haze made of equal parts river mist and twilight. His smile was as thin as the gleam of the distant river. “You will attend the council as befits a young lord who will one day hold great responsibility as the Count of Lavas.” When he used this tone, Alain knew better than to argue.

  They walked together back to the pavilion, where the captains of his army waited for him under the awning. Lavastine sat and motioned to Alain to sit in the camp chair at his right. Everyone else remained standing, even Lord Geoffrey, whose bland gaze made Alain nervous.

  Alain studied the men and one woman ranged before them. Lavastine’s captain stood steady at the count’s left side, of course, a trustworthy man and a good soldier. Lord Geoffrey had acquitted himself honorably at his cousin’s side two years ago when they turned back the Eika threat on the northwest coast; surely he would do as much now, when the stakes were so high. Lord Wichman had months of
experience fighting these Eika, but he was reckless and arrogant and chafed under Lavastine’s rule—and yet under Lavastine’s rule he remained. Biscop Constance’s captain, sent in her place, was a son of the Countess of Autun; Lord Dedi was a man near to Lavastine’s age, weary-looking, laconic, and with a sure hand over his soldiers. Duchess Liutgard of Fesse had sent a distant cousin with a troop of mounted cavalry; this young woman had a glance like the edge of a sword and had gotten in at least three fist-fights on the way here, once breaking the nose of a drunken young lord—one of Wichman’s retainers—who had asked her why she fought instead of bred. Alain suspected that Lord Wichman admired her, although of course he could not importune a noblewoman with as little thought for the consequences as he could a freeholder’s daughter.

  Several sergeants who commanded units of milites, freeholders massed as infantry, stood in the background. One slapped at a fly.

  Lavastine whistled, and the great black hounds padded forward. Old Terror draped himself over the count’s feet while Ardent, Bliss, Fear, and Steadfast thrust their muzzles into his hands seeking a pat on the head before they finally settled down. Sorrow and Rage sat on either side of Alain, and Good Cheer lay down heavily on Alain’s boots. Arrayed so, they presented a formidable entourage.

  The count glanced at Alain, then set his hands on his mail-clad knees, silent for a moment as he met the gaze of each of the captains standing in his council. Stout-hearted, or at least foolhardy, none of them flinched from that gaze … only Alain.

  Ai, Lady, was it wise for him to sit in on this council and hear Lavastine’s plans? But he dared not go against his father’s wishes—even if it meant that Fifth Son might use what he learned here against Lavastine and his army. Even if it meant that the Eika prince would see the count’s even, intelligent gaze in his dreams tonight.

  Having taken the measure of his captains, Lavastine went on. “We know a score of Eika clans hold the city under the leadership of their chieftain, Bloodheart. Given all we have heard from Lord Wichman, who has fought them bravely these past months—” He paused here to indicate the young lord, who preened at this mention and looked sidelong at Lady Amalia to make sure she had heard. “—and from the testimony of the refugees and of our own scouts, we must assume the Eika force outnumbers our own. We must also assume Bloodheart knows this as well.”

  “We haven’t seen any Eika scouts,” protested Lady Amalia. “For I would have ridden them down and stuck them like the dogs they are had I seen any.”

  Wichman snorted. “You haven’t met the Eika—or their dogs. That we see no Eika doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  “Magic and illusion! I haven’t seen such, nor do I believe it exists. Savages can’t control magic.”

  “You’ll see it soon enough, Lady Doubtful—!”

  Lavastine lifted a hand and gained their silence, although Wichman shifted restively, only half listening now as he brooded over the bold and prideful Lady Amalia, who did not deign to look at him. Her attention was reserved for the count. “Bloodheart also knows that we wait for the host of His Majesty, King Henry, who will arrive soon by swift march, Lord willing. I think Bloodheart will not withdraw his army while he still believes he can bleed these lands, and for all of these reasons we must be vigilant and expect that great deeds await us.”

  He regarded his captains, then looked past them to the sergeants standing quietly at their backs. “Through the night we must dig a stockade. I want all those fitted to the work to labor in shifts through the night until we have an earth palisade and a good deep ditch to protect us against an Eika attack. Those who are not working must rest. Our victory will come about through stout hearts and strong arms, and by the blessing of God, may They smile on this enterprise and grant us triumph in this place.” With that, Lavastine rose as a sign of dismissal. “Go to your places. I shall speak again with each of you before the night is gone.”

  Lord Geoffrey hesitated as the others left. “Is this course of action wise? We should attack while surprise is with us, or withdraw and await King Henry. That would be prudent.”

  The count waited in disapproving silence until Geoffrey began to look uncomfortable. “Do you acknowledge my leadership, cousin, or reject it?” he demanded suddenly.

  Flushed, Geoffrey knelt. “I ride with you, my lord.”

  “Then follow where I lead.”

  Geoffrey nodded in acquiescence and, with a final glance toward Alain, took himself off. Only Lavastine, his captain, and Alain remained.

  The captain approached the count carefully, one eye on the hounds—but they only growled softly at him and did not move. “You know, my lord, that when I speak my mind it is from an honest heart.”

  “That is why I trust your advice,” replied Lavastine, and the merest quirk lifted his mouth, as close as he ever came to showing amusement. “Go on.”

  “I advise that we withdraw back to Steleshame and wait there for the king and his army. Then, if we unite our forces, the Eika will not be able to stand against us.”

  Lavastine and the captain were of a height, although the captain had broader shoulders and the stocky build of a man who has marched much and hewn a great deal of wood. Old Terror moved up beside him, sniffing at the captain’s hand, and Alain knew then how brave the captain truly was, for he did not flinch.

  “Sit, Terror,” said Lavastine. “I think you for your council. I have great respect for your knowledge of war, good captain, but we do not know how far behind us King Henry rides or if he can ride to Gent at all. I have prayed that by some miracle we may welcome the king on the field here, but since that is not to be, we must hold out here until he comes—or until we triumph through our own strength. I have given my word to take Gent.”

  “My lord.” The captain coughed, looking uncomfortable, perhaps because the hounds waited so close by. He glanced toward Alain, then seemed to flush and look away. Good Cheer whined and thumped her tail. “My lord, I pray that it is not your head that greets the king from the walls of Gent. A vow may be broken if life and land are at stake.”

  “Nay,” Lavastine turned to look out over the river plain. It was too dark now to see the glint of river or the distant city walls, but the moon rose, full, gleaming in the mist that swaddled the east. “The value of an oath is far greater than the worldly gifts of life and land. We’ll speak more before the dawn. See now to your camp, and have faith.”

  To this the captain inclined his head obediently. “My lord count,” he said to Lavastine, and then, with a half turn, “My lord Alain.” Without further words, he left.

  Was it truly wise to sit here and wait for the king with uncounted Eika nesting in Gent? The captain’s advice seemed prudent as dusk lowered over them and the evening’s wind rose off the river. A corner of the pavilion came loose and began to flap, and a servant hurried forward to bind it down.

  But the count seemed to know what he was doing. Then again, he always did. He had the gift of a clear conscience and absolute conviction in his own judgment and, in most things, he proved himself right.

  Lavastine turned to Alain as if he had completely forgotten the previous exchange. “Alain, I want you to oversee the defenses here at the central portion of the camp. From the top of the hill my banner can be seen by all the troops under my command. All shall rally here should the day go ill for us.”

  “Go ill for us? But I thought you intended for us to wait here until King Henry arrives.”

  “So I do,” Lavastine’s expression was shrouded as he glanced into the evening mist. The huge moon had crested the low-lying mist and now washed the eastern sky with its light. Alain could only pick out a few bright stars. “But the Eika know we are here, and they are not lacking in battle sense. We must be ready in case they attack us. If I fall, then our soldiers must follow you.”

  “If you fall!”

  Lavastine seemed not to have heard him. “If the center is hit and the rampart and ditch breached, then form the infantry into a wall of shields, spears,
and axes. Against such a wall the Eika will break in the same way surf breaks on a cliff. Should the shield wall breach—are you listening, Alain?”

  “Y-yes, Father.” He was listening, but with horror more than anything.

  “Are you afraid, son?” the count asked, more gently.

  “Y-yes, Father. I wouldn’t lie to you, even about that.”

  The count reached out and with an odd, awkward gesture touched Alain on the cheek, a brush more than a caress, almost as he would pat one of his beloved hounds. “There’s no shame in being afraid, Alain. There’s only shame if you let your fear cloud your good judgment. Now then, listen carefully. You, and the men here in the center, will protect the banner. Lady willing, you will know I am with you throughout. I will leave you Graymane as a mount. I will ride the roan gelding.”

  “But where will you be?” Alain demanded, confused and troubled by these orders.

  “I go now to inspect the camps and the work on the ditch and rampart.”

  Torches flamed below in a ring midway around the hill that rose like a bubble from the fields below. Men worked diligently there in a silence punctuated by brief orders or sudden laughter, and an occasional grunt as stones were hacked at, uncovered, and moved up to reinforce the growing rampart of earth. Alain heard, as distantly as the flies, the stab of shovels into the dirt, the spray of earth flung up onto the earthen rampart that would be their first bulwark against an Eika attack.

  “Ditch and wall will protect us,” murmured Lavastine, setting one hand on Alain’s shoulder and the other on Terror’s great head, “but it is our hearts and our determination and our wits that will see us to victory. Remember that, Alain.”

  Leaving Alain with the hounds, he called his servants to him and went to inspect his army.

  Alain called the hounds over and staked them out in a ring around the pavilion, all but Sorrow and Rage, who sat placidly beside him. Then he stood for a while, gazing at the full moon. Were those ragged shadows to the east the outline of Gent’s walls and towers? He would see the city again if he slept. What would Fifth Son learn from him? What had Lavastine told him that Bloodheart would wish to know?