Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (122 page)

Prince Ekkehard knelt beside Udo, shedding a few noble tears. "Take his ring, Milo. We'll return it to his sister."

"He doesn't have a sister," hissed Milo, struggling to get the ring off Udo's limp hand.

Ekkehard shook himself, glancing 'round quickly as if to make sure that his mistake hadn't been noticed. His gaze flicked over Ivar, who wasn't important enough to count. "Well, we'll return it to his kin, as is proper."

"My lord prince." The Lion captain approached, prudently going down on one knee. "I did not know you were marching east to the war—" He was an experienced man, clearly, and obviously one who knew the king's court well. Ivar could almost watch him think, sorting information and deciding that it might be wiser not to mention that he, perhaps, knew that Prince Ekkehard had been sent to Gent to become a monk. "I pray you, my lord prince. If you will lead our army, then we will all march in more safety until we reach your sister's host."

Ekkehard rose with dignity. "That would be well," he agreed. "But what are these creatures who have attacked us? Are they monsters, or men?"

They had leisure to examine the dead while the rest of the army fell into marching order and a hasty burial was arranged for Udo. Apparently at least three men, out foraging with their horses, had not returned, and a party of twenty men went out searching for them.

The flat, demon faces and terrible wings and scaly bodies of the Quman were only ornament. The wings, crushed where the men had fallen in death, looked pathetic now; the feathers that had whistled so frighteningly were shredded, fragile. The flat expressionless faces were only bronze masks attached to helms. The Quman wore a strange kind of armor, leather scales reinforced by metal scales, each one about the width and length of three fingers held together. Yet underneath they were almost as human as he was: young men's faces, olive-skinned, with narrow eyes and yellowing teeth. One was still alive, thrashing a little. A Lion cut his throat, and his blood was as red as any blood Ivar had ever seen.

Thank God it wasn't his own blood. He had survived.

"Ivar! What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Margrave Judith?" Hanna stared down at him from her mount. She wore her Eagle's cape jauntily, and the kind of daunting frown that comes right before a scolding.

Ai, God! Would he never be found worthy? "God has called us to a greater destiny!" he retorted, and he would have gone on, but Ermanrich rushed up and grabbed him by the arm.

"My lord prince will happily leave you standing here like an idiot, Ivar. Get moving!"

Hanna watched him go and then rode off to her own place in the host. His was in the train of the prince, but their trials weren't done because they arrived at the head of the host to find Ekkehard and Baldwin engaged in a quiet but fierce argument.

"I won't go!" cried Baldwin.

"You will go!"

"I won't go! Did you hear what they said? Margrave Judith is just a few days ahead of us. She'll be at your sister's camp. It won't just be me she'll be mad at, you know."

"I'm not afraid of Margrave Judith!"

"You should be! After she's whipped me and killed me, she might ask for
you
for her next husband!"

"Ride on your own way, then!" cried Ekkehard, flinging an arm wide to display the empty roads that departed these crossroads and vanished into silent woodland. "You won't fare so well against the Quman raiders by yourself, will you?"

Ivar pressed his horse forward through the throng and fetched up at Baldwin's side. "Baldwin," he said in a low voice, "Prince Ekkehard is right. It's death to us to remain behind."

"I'd rather be dead than return to her bed," muttered Baldwin, pouting a little. But even when he pouted, he did it beautifully.

"Anything could happen," said Ivar. "We're armed, and we're all at war. We haven't met up with Margrave Judith yet, it's true, and things might go ill if she discovers us. But after what I've just seen, I'm not leaving this army!"

For the first time, Ekkehard nodded at him in approval. Baldwin, still pouting, sighed heavily and shrugged, to show that he gave in. "But we'll regret it," he said ominously. "You'll see."

Hanna hung back in the rearguard as the army marched out. She had never expected to see Ivar again, and yet here he was, with Prince Ekkehard instead of Margrave Judith.

This whole day seemed tainted. She shivered, although it wasn't really cold despite the intermittent drizzle. The baggage train lurched down the road that arrowed east into woodland, and just behind the baggage wagons walked those last stubborn dozen souls, the camp followers, and their two laden carts, which they took turns pulling. Half of the first cohort marched in good order at the rear, and for once they did not let the camp followers straggle behind. She saw Alain in that final rank, but he didn't notice her. He was watching the woods, and she wondered if he had struck a blow in the fight or if he, like most of the Lions, had simply witnessed that brief skirmish. He was a lord, wasn't he? Had
been
a lord, at least, and she had heard much of his victory at Gent when, with a small force, he'd held a lightly fortified hill against a swarm of Eika. He knew how to fight already. No wonder King Henry had offered him service in the Lions, although in truth she was surprised that the king hadn't offered to fit him out more nobly, perhaps even to offer him service in the Dragons. But Henry's mind was closed to her. She couldn't understand why he did what he did. Meanwhile, they still had uncounted days to march before they met up with Sapientia. Did more Quman roam these woodlands, waiting to strike at any passing retinue? Her back prickled, and she swung her horse into step with the rear guard so that she would not be the last person in line.

As they came to a bend in the road that cut off their view of the village, she glanced back, and perhaps it was only the darkening clouds or perhaps it was a shadow over her eyes, sowing fear and doubt and premonition.

Carts and wagons emerged from the palisade, laden with hastily packed clothing and chests and barrels, overflowing with crates of chickens and baskets of turnips. The villagers had panicked. As the Lions marched east on the trail of Margrave Judith and the host of Princess Sapientia, Hanna stared as the villagers began their flight westward toward the fortress of Machteburg, all strung out with their crying, clinging children and such weapons as villagers had: pitchforks, spears, shovels. They only paused to spit on the corpses of the dead Quman.

She rode toward them, shouting: "Stay in your village. You'll be attacked on your way west. Don't go."

But they wouldn't listen.

She had already lost sight of the rearguard in the forest. She had her own duty. She'd done what she could here.

She turned her horse and rode east down the now-empty road. The drizzle only made it worse because every drip, every snap of a water-logged branch, made her start round, ready for those dozen Quman who had escaped to come whistling down on her and cut her to pieces. Cut her head off and blacken it and burn it until it became one of those horrible little shriveled heads. She'd noticed that the raiders they'd met didn't carry heads at their belts. Didn't that mean they were young men who hadn't made their first kill yet? Wouldn't that make them more dangerous, because they were desperate to prove themselves?

She heard a shout, and abruptly relaxed as she came round a corner to see a dozen Lions waiting on the road, her old comrades Ingo, Folquin, Stephen, and Leo among them.

Ingo had a good grip on his spear and shield, so he used a lift of his chin to indicate the road behind her. "Alain noticed you'd fallen behind. Did you see aught?"

"Only those poor fool villagers. They're running west to Machteburg."

"Ai, God," said Ingo. "No doubt they'll run right into those raiders. Poor souls. But we can't wait for them. Come, lads." They turned to follow the army.

As Hanna made her way up through their ranks, knowing that she ought to ride in the vanguard, she overheard Alain speaking to Folquin.

"Poor souls," he said softly. "I pray that God protect them until this war is over and peace returns."

They camped that night within sight of the Salavii village. A rough palisade protected the village, which boasted more houses than that of the Wendish settlement, but while the Wendish built longhouses, the Salavii favored smaller, rounder homes with curved roofs whose low eaves made storage shelters around each house. They looked poorer, hadn't as much livestock but seemed overflowing with little black-haired, pale-complected children who stared at the soldiers and had to be dragged inside the log palisade by their more cautious older siblings.

The deacon came to greet them. She had bare feet, was astoundingly filthy, had lost her two front teeth, and needed a cane despite her youth, but was otherwise cheerful. "What do you recommend, Eagle?" she asked after she had made an awkward courtesy to Prince Ekkehard and Lord Dietrich. She had come from the west and had no discernible accent. Two Salavii men trailed behind her, one young and one quite old.

"Your Wendish neighbors have fled," said Hanna. "I would recommend you take these folk to the other village, which is better fortified."

"They won't want to go," she explained. "They don't trust the Wendish settlers."

"If they trust you, then you must persuade them, Deacon. We fought a Quman raiding party hours ago. There will be others. Brace for it here if you will, or find stronger shelter if there are other fortified settlements nearby. War may yet be averted, but it is better to be ready for anything."

"Wise words, Eagle. I will do what I can."

The rain slackened finally. She sought out Prince Ekkehard's tent, looking for Ivar, and found him at prayer with the others. The frailest of their number led them, a thin-faced and very young man with a persuasively sweet voice. Every word seemed fraught with a deeper meaning, one she couldn't understand, but she understood that it made her terribly uncomfortable.

"We pray you, Lady, watch over us as you watched over Your Son—"

The words thrilled through her with a kind of horror. But she waited stubbornly until they finished, and Ivar, seeing her, rose and came out to speak with her.

She was so disturbed that it came in a flood. "You're still involved in that heresy. And you've corrupted Prince Ekkehard. Why aren't you with Margrave Judith? Or in a monastery? Don't you understand what a dangerous path you're treading?"

"It isn't a heresy, Hanna." He had changed. He rested a hand lightly on her arm and spoke with the same persuasive fervor as had his frail friend, although his voice hadn't the same music in it. "It's truth. You didn't see the miracle of the phoenix. If you had, you'd not wonder why Prince Ekkehard prays with us now when he only tolerated us before."

"What kind of miracle?" she asked, although she did not like to do so: this new Ivar made her nervous. Once, like a climbing rose, he had grown luxuriantly and with spontaneity. Now, he seemed like a vine trained to a fretwork that some other person had constructed.

"A miracle of healing—" Then he caught sight of the ring, and his expression changed again. "But what's this? Has some great lord seduced you with the wealth of worldly goods?"

"The king gave me this as a reward for my service!" she retorted, furious. "How dare you accuse me—

"It's what Liath did!" he cried. Then, perhaps hearing that name, Margrave Judith's pretty husband called to him, and Ivar hesitated only a moment before walking away with a curt farewell. Had they grown so far apart? Was their old closeness so quickly ripped into nothing? She walked away, agitated and disturbed, nor did the warm night promise anything better. No matter where she lay down her blanket, dampness seeped through as soon as she settled her weight onto it. She didn't sleep well, and when she lay awake, she twisted the emerald ring round and round on her finger.

At dawn, as they made ready to leave, the deacon came to them again with her two Salavii companions.

"There's been word," she said, translating as the old man spoke in a harsh, impenetrable language. "An army has been sighted east of here carrying the Wendish banner. These people will retreat to an old hill fort north of here. There they'll hope to weather the storm. But he'll lend you the boy to guide you to the other army, if you'll swear by God and to my satisfaction that you'll not harm the lad and that you'll release him as soon as you've met the scouts of the other army. As I said," she added when the old man was done talking, "they don't trust the Wendish."

The deal was done, and certain objects changed hands: the young man came to stand nervously beside Hanna's horse, and Captain Thiadbold saw fit to reward the old Salavii man for these services with a good wool tunic, linen leggings, and a pair of boots—they had belonged to the Lion who died of dysentery, and no one wanted to wear them because of the agony in which he'd died.