“I hear rumor she bides in Gent. I have also heard a rumor that Prince Sanglant rode into the wilderness to raise a great army of savages in order to wrest Wendar from her, or to restore it to his father. But rumor is a fickle lover, as I know well. I do not know what to believe. They say Henry was crowned emperor in Aosta.”
“Emperor!” For the space of three breaths Constance was too shocked, or angered, to speak. “Surely he commands a great enough army that he might come to our rescue rather than chase dreams in the south!”
“If only he knew our plight.”
“If only. I sent an Eagle, but none returned. I have no messengers to send, Lord Geoffrey. You must send one of your people to Gent.”
“Captain Ulric has offered me one of his men-at-arms as a messenger, Your Grace, but I have come to beg you to write a missive yourself and send one of your people with the soldier, with a message penned in your own hand and sealed with your own ring. Otherwise how can the princess believe us? She must know what Sabella and Conrad hatch between them. She will believe any messages of peace or war to be a trap laid to ambush her.”
“Emperor,” whispered Constance. “Whether this bodes well or ill I cannot say.” Her gaze had strayed. Now she squeezed Geoffrey’s hand and let it drop, indicating that he should rise. “They will look for you, and if you are discovered here, all is lost. I can write a message, and perhaps, if we are fortunate and God favor our suit, I can smuggle it out to you before you depart in the morning. Captain Tammus has strict directions from Sabella to count our number each evening, as you will see, because Sabella fears precisely what you suggest—that one of these who swear loyalty to me will escape to take news of my plight to my kinfolk. I dare not risk it. The punishment is severe, as we have seen to our sorrow.”
“Punishment?”
“I sent a novice to carry word of my whereabouts to Princess Theophanu. She was brought back ten days later and dumped in my courtyard, mutilated and quite dead. Captain Tammus promised the same fate to any other member of my entourage who attempts escape.”
“I’ll go,” said Ivar.
Lord Geoffrey started around, as startled as if he had forgotten Ivar was there.
Constance smiled grimly. “So you have said many times, Brother Ivar. Yet by what means might you succeed when poor Sister Bona died so horribly?”
“They will not hunt down a dead man, Your Grace.”
“A dead man!” Geoffrey’s skin washed so pale that Ivar feared the man might faint, as though Ivar’s words had, for him, a deeper and more pernicious meaning.
“A dead man cannot carry my message, Brother Ivar. What do you propose?”
“We are prisoners, too, Your Grace. I have considered our situation at length, but it is only recently while in conference with Sister Nanthild that it has occurred to me that we may hold the means in our hands to smuggle out one brave soul. With Lord Geoffrey’s plea, it seems the time may be right.”
“Sister Nanthild is a wise woman, it’s true, but only God can restore the dead to life once the soul has left the body.”
“We need only the appearance of death, Your Grace.”
“I see.” Her gaze held him, and he looked away first, because she saw too deeply and too well. “You are willing to take the risk, Brother Ivar? Knowing that you leave your compatriots behind, under my care, and that it is possible you will never see them again?”
“I am. These are desperate times, Your Grace.”
“And you chafe in these bonds, whereas your friends are content enough to rest here after the troubles they have endured. Very well, Brother Ivar.” She held out a hand, stained with ink and heavy with calluses where she gripped her quill, and he knelt before her and kissed her biscop’s ring. “I, too, am desperate. Lord Geoffrey, you must go. Appoint a rendezvous and have your man wait there for five days. If Brother Ivar has not arrived there in that time, he will not come at all. That is all I can promise.”
That evening Sister Nanthild brewed a concoction of valerian, pennyroyal, and two drops of a milky liquid she called “akreva’s sap.” In the morning, Ivar screwed up his courage and drank the potion in one gulp as Sigfrid, Ermanrich, and Hathumod huddled next to him, weeping and grimacing.
“You must take care.” Hathumod’s nose always got bright red-when she cried. “I can’t bear to think of losing you, Ivar, but I know you are doing what must be done. There isn’t anyone else the biscop can trust.”
“Many she can trust,” said Sigfrid, “but none as strong. Ivar must go.”
