Like the Eika made by illusion into stone, he appeared to her different than what she had known before. Still familiar, he was no longer the same Matthias. He was not a boy any longer.
“There aren’t any dogs here,” she said softly, to say something, finally beginning to tremble with reaction. Her feet hurt, and her nose was cold.
They fell in line with the others. Matthias used his stave to nudge back a straying goat. “The dogs kill the cows, and the Eika would have to spend more time guarding the cows against the dogs than the cows against—well—a raid like this. Out here with the livestock we don’t see many dogs.”
“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked.
But he only shook his head and would not answer.
It took them the rest of the day to walk back to Steleshame. Matthias’ limp got progressively worse, and finally one of the soldiers took pity on him and let him ride behind him.
Mistress Gisela fell into ecstasies, seeing what a great number of livestock had been rescued from the Eika. At once, she ordered her servants to prepare a thanksgiving feast.
Anna led Matthias out to a hovel in the courtyard where she, Helvidius, and Helen made their home, such as it was. Stuck cheek by jowl with a number of other hovels constructed after the attack, the tiny hut had at least the benefit of lying within the newly reconstructed palisade wall. No one slept outside the palisade now; of course, Steleshame was no longer as crowded as it had once been.
Master Helvidius sent Anna to sit with Helen while he tended to Matthias’ leg, grumbling all the while about Mistress Gisela and her airs of nobility: “Feasting when there isn’t enough to feed the weakest! The biscop of Gent would have fed the poor, bless her memory!”
Matthias was feverish, too restless to sleep, too nauseated to eat much more than a sip of ale and a crust of bread, but at last he fell asleep on their single pallet, little Helen curled up at his chest. Anna heaped all three blankets over him and resigned herself to shivering out the night.
“Nay,” said Helvidius. “You’ll come with me into the hall. No use your getting sick when you have both of them to tend for. And there’ll be roasted cow, I’ll wager. You can grab a bone before the dogs get to it.” Thus coaxed, Anna reluctantly left Matthias and the little girl.
But later that night as Anna sat half-dozing by the hearth, after Lord Wichman had returned from his scouting expedition, after he and his men had feasted and the fortunate servants been allowed to wolf down their scraps, after Helvidius had serenaded the young lord endlessly with his exploits, a sudden cold undercurrent chilled the girl like a wordless cry for help.
Quite drunk now, soldiers sang a bawdy tune as Mistress Gisela retired to the shadowy end of the hall. Anna heard angry words hushed as though under a blanket. But at last the householder returned bearing the prize which Lord Wichman had so far not obtained.
Gisela’s niece, as pretty a woman as Anna had ever seen, was led forward, decked out in whatever fine garb had survived unscathed from the autumn attack on the holding. The young woman’s expression wore no emotion at all; she seemed, like the Eika, more statue than living being. But Lord Wichman smiled broadly and toasted her beauty with one more cup of wine. Then he took her hand and she went, unresisting, to his curtained bed while his soldiers cheered and laughed.
A servant went outside with a bucket of slops for the pigs. As the door opened, the night’s wind cast a sudden cold glamour over the hall like the breath of the winter sky, turning the ground to frost.
Then the door shut and, as with a collective breath, the soldiers began to drink and sing again.
Much later, when even the most stalwart fellow snored and Helvidius slept with his head pillowed on his arm, she heard the sound of a woman weeping softly.
4
IT was a symptom of the remarkable persistence of lustfulness in humankind that no matter how cold and dreary the weather outside and how cramped the conditions inside, folk did find ways to carry on more—or less—discreet affairs. Certain of Rosvita’s younger clerics had the habit, both annoying and amusing, of keeping track of who was sleeping with whom.
“—and Villam has a new concubine, which I grant you is nothing unusual, but I swear to you I saw her sharing her favors, such as they are, with Lord Amalfred.” Brother Fortunatus was one of the many sons of the robust and prolific Countess of Hesbaye as well as by far the worst gossip among the clerics.
“Perhaps when Lord Amalfred returns to Salia, he will take the concubine with him and spare poor Villam the pain of her duplicity,” said Sister Amabilia.
“Ah, well, Villam no doubt has his eye on more succulent prey. I swear I saw him eyeing the young Eagle.”
