“I pray you, mercy!” he sobbed as he clawed at the ground, trying to get up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. Blood and vomit smeared his face and the front of his tunic. The sergeant was a dead weight, and Fortunatus had some trouble shifting him, but together they dragged him down the tunnel and, after shoving aside the pleading, weeping soldier, hauled the door shut and dropped the bar into place.
“Oh, God.” A wave of dizziness so overset her that she stumbled and caught herself on the wall, hearing the moans, the cries, beseeching, begging.
“We must go,” said Fortunatus.
It was a nightmare, as though she had fallen into the pit where the souls of all of the people Bulkezu had murdered were trapped forever within stone, never to be free, never to ascend to the Chamber of Light. She was leaving them all behind. She was abandoning them.
“Jehan and Jerome have carried Sister Rosvita up! Anyone might come! There’s nothing we can do for these people!”
“We could let them go.”
“Who knows what terrible crimes they have committed? Why else would the skopos have confined them here? Did you not hear the apostate crying out the Oath made by the fire worshipers?”
“What if they are unjustly imprisoned, as Sister Rosvita was?”
“We dare not take that chance. What if even one of them is mad and tries to stop us? We must escape with Sister Rosvita before more people come. I assure you that the skopos, Presbyter Hugh, and the queen herself will not rest until they find her, once they know she is gone. I pray you, Eagle.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing none of the prisoners could hear her although she heard them, their voices rising with despair and panic. “God, forgive me.”
They took the last oil lamp, leaving the dungeons in a foul darkness.
A strange power afflicted her limbs, so that she raced up the steps and yet was not winded when they reached the top. The air reeked of dust and hot ash, scalding her lungs. By the Dead Man’s Gate they found Aurea and two of the young sisters waiting with a mule, a broken-backed nag of a mare, and a handcart in which the young brothers had already laid Sister Rosvita most tenderly, cushioning her on a blanket and covering her with another. The young women fussed and whispered, unwilling to let go of Rosvita’s hands, chafing them, kissing them. Aurea had hold of the mounts. She wept silent tears, so overcome with emotion that her face had settled into a grimace as she stared fixedly into the darkness toward the main portion of the palace. The sound of soldiers marching, of a horn and drums, assailed them. Were the soldiers leaving the palace to march down into the city by the main gate, or were they returning in force to garrison the palace? Hanna could not tell. Lights moved on the narrow path that led down to the riverside.
“Fortunatus.” That croak of a voice had gained power. “What has happened? Why am I here?”
Dry-eyed, Fortunatus kissed Rosvita’s hands fervently. “God brought about a miracle, Sister.” He was distracted by the sound of hurried footfalls, the slap of sandals. “Where is Heriburg?” he demanded.
“She would go off!” cried one of the girls aggrievedly.
There she came, laden with books. “I have your History, Sister!” she cried as she caught sight of them. “I knew you would not rest easy if we had to leave it behind. We must hurry. A whole troop of soldiers is marching in.”
“The books!” Rosvita lay back in the cart, exhausted.
Heriburg thrust the books in and around the cleric’s legs and Hanna pulled the blanket over her completely, concealing her.
“Come,” Hanna said. “We’ll take turns with the cart. Let any who question us be told that we’re rescuing books and cartularies from the king’s schola.”
It took four of them to negotiate the cart down the steep path, but they had better luck along the avenue that led directly to the western gate. None of the buildings on this stretch had collapsed, although they still had to negotiate the many people milling along the roadway, too afraid to go back inside to fetch their belongings yet unwilling to leave the city without their worldly possessions. A few shouted curses at them, as though the Wendish had brought the disaster down on the city. One man threw a stone that cut an ugly gash on Aurea’s cheek.
They kept their heads down after that, and Hanna was glad they weren’t leaving by the eastern gate, where anti-Wendish sentiment seemed more volatile. The roar of sound, shouting, wailing, drums, a booming crash that reverberated and collapsed at last into a long rumbling echo, the bleating of goats and the barking of frantic dogs, drove them on.
