PROLOGUE (30 page)

Geoffrey gasped. "Why is that?" demanded Aldegund.

This, here and now, was the test of wills
—and of whether the illegitimate son deserved what he had been given.

"All of these men took part in the fight or witnessed the fight, and they will swear before your deacon and Count Lavastine's clerics that the man involved spoke words disloyal to Count Lavastine, lord of his lord."

At that even Lady Aldegund blushed, for every person there knew what sort of things a tongue loosened by too much mead might have said: not against the count him
‍
self
—no one disputed Lavastine's deeds or prerogatives or virtues—but against the count's judgment.

There was a long silence.

At last Lady Aldegund inclined her head, acquiescing to Alain's judgment in the matter. Her uncle sat down and, after a moment, she did as well. Lavastine sat, too, and took the cup she offered him.

Alain bowed his head. Rage snuffled into his palm, smelling something of interest there
—perhaps the lingering scent of the servingwoman. Ai, Lady; as if the thought made her appear, there she stood beside Lavastine, filling the count's cup. She glanced up, briefly, at Alain, and then away. She did not look at him again. The feast proceeded without incident, and the poet—whose diction and voice were decent enough—was encouraged to sing something more popular.

Only in the morning when they had ridden away from the holding and lost sight of it past hills and forest did Lavastine comment on the incident.

"I am pleased with your cleverness."

“But
—
”

Lavastine lifted a hand, which meant he had not finished and did not yet wish for Alain to reply. Dutifully, Alain waited. "But you must not be unwilling to boast of your accomplishments, Alain. To display prowess in battle is a fine thing for a man in your position. You must not boast immoderately, beyond what you deserve, but it is just as bad to claim false humility. Modesty is a virtue for churchmen, not for the son and heir of a count, one who will lead these same men and their younger brothers and cousins and
their
sons into battle. They must believe in you, and they must believe that your good fortune will lift them as well and keep them alive and prosperous. That the Lady of Battles, a saint, has given you her favor
—that will weigh heavily with them. But you must not mire yourself in humility. You are not a monk, Alain."

"I was meant to be one," he murmured.”

"Not any more! We will no longer speak of this, Alain. A good man remembers and honors his oaths. In time, when you are an old man and have an heir who is ready to take your place, then perhaps you can retire to a monas
‍
tery and live out the rest of your years in peace. But that oath was made for you by others, before it was known who you were and what role you have to play. You never stood before the monastery gate and pledged yourself to the church. That you think of this obligation at all is to your credit. But it is not to be spoken of again. Do you understand?"

Alain understood. "Yes, Father," he replied. The hounds, on their leashes, padded obediently alongside.

Lavastine took in a deep breath of the autumn air. "No need to hasten to Osna Sound." He turned to survey his retinue. "We've heard no reports of Eika wintering there. I think we may take a few days to go hunting."

VI THE CHILDREN

OF GENT

SPADES stabbed into loose dirt. From where she stood, Anna caught flecks of soil on her cheek, spray thrown out as the gravediggers filled in the latest grave. They had buried twelve refugees in a mass grave this bitter cold morning, including a young mother and her newborn babe.

Anna had been on her way to the stream, but it was hard not to stop and stare. A few ragged onlookers huddled in the wind. Rain so cold it felt like droplets of ice spattered down, and she tugged her tattered cloak tighter about her shoulders. Here in the camp, corpses went naked into the grave since the living had need of the clothes off their backs.

A child no more than two or three winters old bawled at the lip of the pit. It had straggly hair that might have been blond once, a face matted with filth, a dirty tunic, and nothing covering its feet. It also looked about to fall into the pit with the dead folk. She set down her buckets and hurried forward just as the child slipped and fell to its rump on the crumbling slope.

"Here, now," she said, grabbing it by the arm and pulling it back. "Don't fall in, child." Looking around, she hailed one of the diggers. "Where's the child's kin?"

He pointed into the grave, where woman and infant lay bound together by shreds of old cloth, all that the folk in the camp could spare to make sure they weren't separated in death. With a stab and a heave, he tossed another spadeful of earth onto the grave. A shower of dirt scattered across the waxy faces of mother and child.

"Isn't there anyone here to look after it?"

"It was crying when we came to carry away the corpse," he said, "and it's crying still. Ach, child," he added, "perhaps it was a blessing that the children of Gent escaped the city, but most of them are orphans now, as is this poor babe. Who's to care for them when we can't even care for our own?"

The child, safe away from the rim, had now fastened onto her thigh and it snuffled there, smearing her tunic with snot as it whimpered and coughed.

"Who, indeed?" asked Anna softly. With a finger she touched the Circle of Unity that hung at her chest. "Come, little one. What's your name?"

The child didn't seem to know its name, nor could it talk. She pried its arms off her leg and finally, with some coaxing, got the child to drag one of the empty buckets. In this way, with the baby toddling along beside her, they made it to the stream, where they waited in line to dip their wooden buckets into the water.

"Who's this?" asked one of the older girls, indicating the child who stood fast at Anna's heels like a starving dog. "I didn't know you had a little brother."

"I found him by the new grave."

"Ach, indeed," said an older boy. "That would be Widow Artilde's older child."

"Widow?" asked Anna. "But she was so young." Then she realized how stupid the comment sounded as the older children snickered.

"Her husband was a militia man in the city. I suppose he died when the Eika came."

"Then you know her?" Anna tried to draw the child out from behind her, but the child began to bawl again.

"She's dead," said the boy. "Had the baby, and they both of them caught sick and died."

"Doesn't anyone want this child?"

But having filled their buckets, the others were already walking away, hauling the precious water back to camp or to Steleshame. So she let the child follow her back to the shelter she and Matthias called home. Indeed, the child seemed unlikely to let her out of its sight.

"God forfend!" exclaimed Helvidius when she ushered the child into the shelter of the canvas awning. A fire burned brightly in a crude hearth built of stones, and the old poet sat on his stool watching over the pot in which they kept a constant hot stew made of anything edible they could scavenge. Today it smelled of mushroom and onion, flavored with the picked-over bones of a goose. The remains of yesterday's acorn gruel sat in their one bowl next to the fire. Anna handed spoon and bowl to the child. The spoon dropped unregarded from its hand and it used its dirty fingers to shovel down the lukewarm gruel.

"What's this creature?" demanded Helvidius.

"One more helpless than you!" Anna had taken the buckets of water around to the tanners in exchange for scraps of leather. "Can you help me make it something to wear on its feet?"

"You're not taking this brat in, are you? There's scarcely room for the three of us."

But Anna only laughed. The old poet was always grumpy, but she didn't fear him. "I'll let him sleep curled at your feet. It'll be like having a dog."

He grunted. The child had licked the bowl clean and now began to snivel again. "Dogs don't whine so," he said. "Does it have a name?"

"Its mother's dead, and no one else claimed it. You watch over it while I go haul more water."

She made four more trips down to the stream. At this time of year, with the winter slaughter underway, the tan
‍
nery was busy with many new hides, so Matthias had seen to it that she could take his place hauling water and ash for the tanning pits or collecting bark from the forest. He had taken on more skilled work scraping or finishing skins which had cured over summer and autumn. She didn't mind the work. The activity kept her warm and gave them a certain security that many of the other refugees, dependent on what they could scavenge from the forest or on Mistress Gisela's charity, did not have.

Yet although the winter slaughter went on, and meat was salted or smoked against the season to come, little of that meat reached the refugees. Once a day a deacon distributed a coarse oat bread at the gate, but there was never enough to go around.

Now, when Anna returned to their shelter from her last trip to the stream, it was to find the child wailing, old Helvidius vainly singing some nonsense tune with all the enthusiasm of a woman proposing marriage to a dowerless man, and Matthias glowering over the stewpot.

"What's this?" Matthias demanded as she shoved the canvas awning aside. The canvas didn't really keep out the cold as much as it kept in some of the heat in the fire and their massed bodies. It did keep off rain tolerably well. Still, her toes and fingers ached from the chill and her nose was running. "Where did
this
come from?"

"It's a child, Matthias," she said.

"I can
see
it's a child!"

"It had nowhere else to go. I couldn't just leave it to die! Not after St. Kristine saved it from death at the hands of the Eika." The child sniffed and babbled something unintelligible but did not let go of the old man's knee.

"And it stinks!" added Matthias.

It certainly did. "Master Helvidius
—'

"I didn't know it couldn't take care of such things itself!" the old man wailed. "I'm a poet, not a nursemaid."

"Well, you must learn how to watch over the child, since it will be under your care all day," she said tartly.

"Under my care all day!" he cried.

"You mean to
keep
it?" Matthias looked appalled.

There was a sudden silence.

"We must keep it," said Anna. "You know we must, Matthias."

He sighed, but when he did not reply, she knew she had won.

"Well, then," said Helvidius grudgingly, "if we keep it, we must name it. We could call it Achilleus or Alexandras, after the great princes of ancient Arethousa. Or Cornelius, the Dariyan general who destroyed proud Kartiako, or Teutus of Kallindoia, famous son of the warrior-queen Teuta."

She had coaxed the child over to her and, by the door flap, was now peeling off the soiled cloth that swaddled its bottom. She laughed suddenly. "You'd best find a girl's name, Master Helvidius. We'll call her Helen, for didn't Helen survive through many trials?"

"Helen," said the old poet, his tone softening as he regarded the child. "Fair-haired Helen, true of heart and steadfast in adversity."

Matthias snorted, disgusted, but he was careful as always to share out the stew equally between them as they each took turns spooning stew out of their shared bowl.

It was dusk outside, almost dark, when they heard shouts from the roadway. Anna thrust little Helen into Helvidius' arms and ran outside with Matthias. They heard a great commotion and hurried to where the southeast road ran alongside the tanning works in time to see an astonishing procession ride past
—noble lords on horseback and more men-at-arms, marching behind them, than she could count.

Even in the twilight their arms and clothing had such a rich gleam that she could only gape at their finery. They laughed, proud, strong young lords, a handful of women riding in their ranks, and appeared not to notice the ragged line of people who had gathered to watch them arrive.

The gates of Steleshame had already opened and there, lit by torchlight, Anna saw the mistress of Steleshame and the mayor of Gent waiting to welcome their guests.

"Where are you from?" Matthias shouted, and a man-at-arms called back, "We've come from Osterburg, from Duchess Rotrudis."

When they returned to the shelter and gave their news, Helvidius was beside himself. "That would be one of the duchess' kinsmen," he said. "They'll want a poet at their feasting, and where there is feasting there are leftovers to be had!"