“The ferryman has lodging enough to house you.”
As Ratbold began to protest again, Ulric quite unexpectedly grabbed the prior by his robe and pulled him close. Only Ivar was close enough to overhear the captain’s soft words. “Listen, friend. I’d advise you strongly to turn right round and get on your way before anyone takes notice of who your master is. You’re just lucky it was me on duty this afternoon, or you’d be marching to a nice locked cell at this very moment. Do you understand me?”
“B—b—but—” For once, Prior Ratbold lost his power of speech.
Ulric let him go and watched with narrowed eyes and a bitter frown as Ratbold hurriedly got his party turned around and headed south, away from the city. The captain had the patience of a saint. Only when an orchard and a dip in the road hid their backs from his sight did he turn to regard his prisoners.
“Bring in the heretics,” he said caustically to his guardsmen. “What’s seven more in our lady’s service?”
They were taken to a low room in the barracks loft, the kind of prison that soldiers accused of a crime like petty theft or fist-fighting would be thrown into. Here they languished for four days, measured by the light coming and going in the smoke hole. Food and drink arrived at regular intervals. Their slops bucket was emptied twice a day. They had no fire but plenty of straw for padding and although it was cold enough that Ivar was always shivering, the heat from below made it bearable. In fact, judging by the noise and activity, there seemed to be an awful lot of soldiers gathered in Autun, as many as if. the king dwelled here. In the dim light they couldn’t tell what was going on. They could only listen and pray.
On the fifth morning the trap was flung open, admitting a roil of smoke and a summons. One by one they climbed down the ladder. The awkwardness of their descent on a rickety ladder made them vulnerable, as did a dozen sour-looking guards waiting below. Impossible to make an escape in these circumstances.
“They’ll need a wash before they’re taken in to see Her Most Excellent Highness.” Captain Ulric paused in front of Baldwin, scratching his beard as he looked the young man up and down. “See that this one is given clean clothes. One of you can trim his hair and beard, but don’t let him or any of his comrades handle the razor.”
“Going for a bonus, Captain?” jested one of the guards, a slender young man with pale hair.
“Shut up, Erkanwulf. I do what I must to protect my position and the men under my command. If I can gain Her Ladyship’s favor, so be it. Now move along.”
“Something doesn’t feel right,” whispered Ermanrich, before getting a hard tap on his behind from the haft of a halberd.
“No talking,” said the one called Erkanwulf. Like his captain, he had a surly expression as though he’d eaten something disagreeable.
Ivar glanced at Gerulf, but the old Lion just shrugged. Something wasn’t right here, but it was impossible to know what it was except for the unusual concentration of soldiers, visible as the prisoners were marched through the barracks, out through the busy courtyard, and over to the famous palace baths.
In these stone halls, built long ago by Dariyan engineers, Emperor Taillefer had held court while luxuriating in the waters. His poets had sung of the curative powers of the baths, and more than one tapestry woven in those times depicted Taillefer at his ease among his courtiers in the baths or reclining at dinner on couches as the ancient Dariyans were said to do. The great emperor had restored the glory of the old Dariyan Empire for a brief and brilliant span.
Yet his Holy Dariyan Empire had collapsed when he had died. No one after him had been strong enough to hold it together.
A pair of elderly women had charge of the baths at this hour. Not even they, crones both, were immune to Baldwin’s staggering beauty, and by the time they were done with him, he looked better than he had in weeks with his hair neatly cut in the style favored by the royal princes and his beard trimmed to show off the handsome line of his jaw. A guard brought him a clean wool tunic, simple in cut and color but more than adequate compared to their travel-stained gear. Even Gerulf whistled admiringly.
“God above,” swore Dedi, as if he couldn’t help himself. “I’m glad my Fridesuenda never got a look at him. She’d have forgotten I ever existed.”
Baldwin looked ready to weep, like a calf just realizing that it’s about to be led off to the slaughterhouse. Ivar set a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. “Just stick by me.”
“You won’t abandon me, will you, Ivar?”
“Of course not, Baldwin. I’ll never abandon you. Never.”
