“You must not have seen any fighting if you think battle is preferable to a quiet backwater like this.”
“I’ve seen fighting enough!”
“You must be Captain Tammus. We’ve heard of your loyal service to Lady Sabella.”
“It’s true enough she can’t trust every man who offers her service just because she has gold and swords, but I’ve long pledged my loyalty to her. She knows the worth of my oath. I’ve these scars and this stump to prove it. Who are you?”
“Captain Ulric, of Autun.”
“Ah. Yes, Captain, I recall you now.”
“I’ve brought relief for the men on guard here. I also have a message for the biscop.”
“Very well. Your men can leave the wagons here and choose accommodations in our camp—which you see is decent enough, warm in the winter and lots of wood and water, although the river is running low this year. I’ll have my guards cart the goods into the cloister. Your men will need to know the lay of the land before they begin their guard duties. As for now, I’ll escort you to the biscop myself.”
“Very good.”
When the gates swung in, Ivar concealed himself behind a stack of empty barrels and crates as a dozen soldiers escorting two wagons trundled past bearing the usual offerings of salt, oil, and candles. He recognized the name “Ulric” from that unlucky day he and the others had entered Autun expecting to be tried for heresy and instead were sent off to smother in this cloister, their lives spared because of Baldwin’s sacrifice.
Perhaps Captain Ulric had news of Baldwin.
He followed the wagon to the compound, then tagged along as Captain Ulric, Tammus, and two attendants walked to the biscop’s audience chamber. Captain Tammus cherished the same surly frown he always wore, which went well with his belligerent stride and coarse language. He had indeed suffered horrific injuries in his lady’s service, although Ivar didn’t know what battles he had fought in: he was missing one hand and one eye, and nasty scars twisted across the right side of his face. In contrast, Ulric was a middle-aged man with a pleasant face, easy to look at, tall and well built with the bowlegged walk common to cavalrymen. His cheeks and nose were burned red and peeling, but the faces of his attendants were shrouded by the hoods they’d pulled up to shade themselves from the hot sun.
Ivar slipped into the audience chamber and stood along the back wall, unnoticed except by the biscop, of course, and by Captain Ulric, who glanced back as the door was shut on them and marked Ivar with a widening of the eyes and a stiffness in his expression.
He doesn’t trust me.
Why should he?
Ivar had been named as Sabella’s enemy, and Captain Ulric served her, or Duke Conrad, who was her ally. Even Gerulf and Dedi had vanished into Conrad’s army; he had heard no word of them in eighteen months, just as he had no knowledge of Baldwin’s whereabouts and whether he suffered or flourished under Sabella’s care.
“You may come forward, Captain,” said Constance kindly, “and kiss my ring.”
Tammus bent the merest angle, just enough not to insult her outright, and kissed her ring, although he sneered as he glanced back to invite Ulric to come forward. The cavalryman knelt before her chair and bent his head respectfully. Were those tears in his eyes? From this distance it was impossible for Ivar to tell, and Captain Ulric blinked, rose, and retreated, coughing behind his hand either because of dust in the room or to cover a strong emotion.
Ivar felt a swirl of dangerous currents at work in the chamber, but he couldn’t identify their locus or the shifting eddy of these tides. He leaned against the wall, pretending to an ease he did not possess.
“What news, Captain?” Constance asked.
“I bring word from Lady Sabella. She means to visit you within the next fortnight.”
“Ah.” By no means could any person read Constance’s reaction. She nodded, hands curled lightly over the arms of her chair, seeming relaxed. Or resigned.
“There’ll be a great deal to be made ready,” said Captain Tammus. “We’ll have to deplete our stores to feed her retinue. The village near here hasn’t any grain stores left to them, and it’s not harvest yet.”
“Harvest this year will not yield much,” replied the biscop. “You’ve seen the fields.”
“I’ll have to send men out hunting again. We’ll take half a dozen sheep from your flock.”
Constance nodded, although she knew as well as Ivar did that their flock was sorely depleted. None of the ewes had birthed twins this spring, a sign, Sister Nanthild said, of drought to come, and indeed drought and unusually hot weather had afflicted them. What rains had come had arrived untimely, and in one drenching flood that had washed sprouts out of dusty fields, churned them into muddy lakes, and then hardened the land into cracked earth when the sun returned to beat on them as a hammer flattened red-hot iron on the anvil.
