“I pray you, go quickly. Do you see the dust?”
Where the open ground folded away into hills, a gully cut up through the highlands. This was the path they had walked to reach here. No mountains, these, but rather hills so ancient that all that remained were their dry backs and rugged terrain. Little rain had fallen over the winter. Now the dry path betrayed their pursuers. Dust puffed and billowed, marking the advance of their enemy.
“God help us,” she murmured. “They’re close.”
“Go,” said Sister Hilaria. “Below you will find a steep staircase. At its base there is a second ladder. Cast it down. And once more descend another set of steps cut into the rock, to where there is a third ladder, the longest. They must climb to safety.”
Hanna scraped her knuckles more than once in her haste. The ladder gave her less trouble than the steep steps, where she felt she was hanging in midair, ready to tumble off. Coming to a lower ledge, she uncovered another rope ladder and rolled it over the side, cursing when it tangled. Below, her companions had fallen silent. As she swung over the side to start climbing down, she saw their upturned faces. They clustered at the foot of the towering rock. No need to call out: they understood what was happening.
Her elbows ached by the time she got down the next set of steps and ladders, where she found a broader ledge—wide enough to hold a brace of baskets shoved under an overhanging shelter. A broken winch had been abandoned in pieces. The rocks that pinned down the corner of the canvas covering the ladder had been knocked astray by the wind, and it was this white flap they had seen fluttering.
Below, Gerwita wept.
A horseman appeared at the gap where the gully gave out onto open ground. With a shout, the man turned and disappeared back the way he had come.
Hanna grabbed the ladder and flung it over the side. It unrolled with a hiss, rattling down the stone face. Aurea grabbed the base and yanked it down.
“Go!” shouted Hanna. “Bring my quiver and arrows up first!” Their lack of baggage helped them. Heriburg started up first, the heaviest pouch of books slung over her shoulders, with Jehan behind her with the quiver and arrows on his back.
The rope struts on the ledge jerked and strained as the clerics climbed. Hanna heard Fortunatus’ voice rising. “Nay, Sister Rosvita! You must go now. Better we be taken than you be lost.”
“Sister!” Hanna shouted down. “Don’t argue! Come quickly!”
She marked the dust cloud, but at this angle it was lost behind the hills. She had no way of telling how close their pursuers were, and if that first horseman had been their lead rider or a scout ranging far out in front of the main force.
Soon she heard Heriburg’s ragged breathing. As soon as the young cleric’s head and shoulders appeared, Hanna grabbed her under the armpits and helped her up onto the ledge. Heriburg crawled forward and rested on hands and knees before struggling to her feet and measuring the pitch of the staircase angling up the cliff. With a grimace, she started up.
Jehan rolled onto the ledge and stood. “I fear Gerwita is not strong enough to get up so many ladders,” he said.
Hanna grabbed one of the large baskets to test the strength of the rope and the security of the hook hammered into the stone, where the rope was anchored. “Ware below!” she shouted before heaving the basket over the side and together she and Jehan paid out line until it rested on the ground. Rosvita was halfway up the ladder, Jerome behind her to steady her. Below, Fortunatus helped Gerwita into the basket. Aurea cut loose the goat.
With Jehan’s help, it was not as difficult as Hanna had feared to haul her up; the girl had grown frail during their escape and weighed no more than a child. By the time they had her hauled up on the ledge, Rosvita and Jerome, too, had collapsed panting on the narrow terrace, and Ruoda and Fortunatus were most of the way up the ladder with Aurea just beginning to climb. The servingwoman had rigged her belt to bind Hanna’s staff onto her back, but the staff impeded her progress. Every time she shifted her shoulders, it banged against the rock face.
“Look!” Jerome pointed toward the gully.
First one horseman, then five, spilled out of the ravine onto the open ground. As they fanned out, twenty more appeared. One rider bore a banner aloft which displayed a silver Circle of Unity sewn onto a field of gules. Beside him rode a man wearing a red cloak.
“A presbyter,” gasped Jerome.
Rosvita raised her head to look but it was obvious that small movement exhausted her. Her skin had drained of all color; her lips seemed almost blue.
“Keep going,” said Hanna.
