PROLOGUE (8 page)

"Let us keep our minds on Godly subjects, Brother Fortunatus." But after uttering this pious sentiment, Sister Rosvita smiled. She was famous at court for her great learning and wise counsel, and for never losing her temper. After two months with the king's progress, Liath could not help but admire her from afar
—especially having heard Ivar sing her praises so often in Heart's Rest. "I can't recall his name now, but in truth, he was memorably beautiful, the kind of face one never forgets."

"High praise from you, Sister Rosvita," said the one called Amabilia. "Even if you do remember everything."

The stream of platters and pheasants passed. Liath hurried on and made it to the door.

"Thiadbold." She stopped beside the red-haired Lion. "What of the man this morning, whose cheek was cut so horribly? Will he live?"

"He'll live, though he won't be charming any of the women with his handsome face, alas for him."

"Will he still be able to serve as a Lion? What will happen to him if he can't?" She knew all too well what it meant to have neither kin nor home.

"A Lion who is unfit to serve because of a wound in battle can expect a handsome reward from the king, a plot of land in the marchcountry or fenland."

"Aren't those dangerous and difficult places to farm?"

uat; the "In some ways, but you're free of service to the lordlings who demand tithes and labor. The king only demands service from you to man the marchcountry watchforts. Even a man as scarred as poor Johannes will be can find a wife if he has a plot of land to pass on to their daughters. There's always a strong woman to be found, a younger sister, perhaps, who'd like to forge out on her own and will overlook an unsightly scar." He hesitated, then touched her, briefly, on the elbow. "But mind, Eagle, we Lions will remember that you came to his aid."

Behind them, at the table, the king rose and lifted his cup, commanding silence. "In the morning we march east, toward Wendar," the king announced. Several of the younger lords cheered, happy at the prospect of marching nearer to those lands where fighting might be expected. "But let us not rejoice in a hall of mourning. Let us remember the lesson of St. Katina."

Since St. Katina had been tormented by visions of great troubles lying in wait for her village in the same way a beast of the forest lies in wait for an innocent fawn, Liath wondered that King Henry would want to remind his retinue of her story. But this
was
her feast day, and her visions
had
proved truthful.

" 'Do not let fear draw a veil across your sight,' " said Biscop Constance.

" 'Do not forget that which troubles you.'" The king stared past his cup toward a vision only he could see. "It has been sixty-seven days since I learned of the death of
—" Here he faltered. Never could he bring himself to say the name out loud. Better that he never do so, thought Liath bitterly, so as not to bring pain blooming fresh out of her own heart. "Since the Dragons fell at Gent."

Certain of the young lords in the back of the hall called out a toast to the bravery of the fabled Dragons. Some of them, no doubt, had hopes that Henry would name a new captain and form a new troop of Dragons, but he had not once spoken of such a thing in Liath's hearing. They drank, toasting the dead Dragons, but Henry only sipped at his wine.

Villam changed the subject at once, discussing the road back. They would ride southeast until they linked up with Hellweg, the Clear Way, that began in easternmost Ar
‍
conia, then cut through northwestern Fesse and from there into the heartland of Saony.

"It is too late to hope to reach Quedlinhame for Matthiasmass," the king said, "for the harvest will be over. But we may reach there in time to celebrate the Feast of St. Valentinus with my mother and sister."

Quedlinhame.
Wasn't that where Ivar had been sent? Liath glanced toward Sister Rosvita, who was smiling at some comment made by Sister Amabilia. Thinking of Ivar made her think of Hanna. Where was Hanna now? How did her journey prosper, she and Wolfhere? Once Hanna had spoken of Darre as if it were a city built from a poet's song, all breath and no substance. Now Hanna would see it herself.

"Then," the king was saying, "we will swing south, to hunt."

"What are we hunting?" asked Villam.

"Troops and supplies," said King Henry grimly. "If not for this year, then for the next." The thought of Gent was never far from his mind.

ANNA had to walk farther into the forest than she ever had before in order to find anything to harvest. The woods nearest to Steleshame had been picked clean by the refugees from Gent. Matthias didn't like her to go out into the woods alone, especially as the border of the forest itself steadily shrank back as refugees culled what they could in berries and roots, let their livestock graze away the undergrowth, and then cut down the trees themselves for shelter and fuel.

She and Matthias had survived in Gent for a long time, all alone. Surely she could survive a few expeditions into the forest, where the worst predators were wolves and bears
—if any still roamed here now that the forest had been hunted clean by the foresters who guarded the pathways against Eika scouts and who supplied Mistress Gisela and the refugees in Steleshame with fresh meat.

But there was not enough for everyone. There was never enough for everyone.

She used a stick to beat a pathway through the leaves and undergrowth. Burrs stuck to her skirts. Sharp thistles pricked her feet. She had a welt on one cheek and a tear in her shawl where it had gotten caught on a dead branch. Fearful of losing her direction, she scored a line in the trees she passed so she could follow this trail back; she and Matthias had plenty of knives, four of which they had so far traded for canvas and a steady supply of eggs. But stopping to score every third or fourth tree made slow going
— and her feet hurt from stones and stickers.

Ahead, a dense thicket glistened with berries, bright red balls no bigger around than the tip of her little finger. She bit into one carefully; its sour bite made her wince, and a sharp tang burned her tongue. But she picked every last one nevertheless, dropping them into the pouch she had brought along. Maybe they were poison, but certain wisewomen in the camp knew which could be eaten raw, which eaten if cooked, which could be used for dye, and which were simply useless. Scrambling through the thicket looking for more of the berries, she found the real treasure. A tree had fallen and left space and enough sun for a garden of wild onions.

She got down on hands and knees to dig them up. Matthias would be so proud of her.

When the twig snapped, old reflexes kept her still. She dared not even raise her head. Only that stillness saved her. They walked past on the other side of the thicket, and when they whispered, one to the other, she knew by the whispery flute of their voices and the harsh unintelligible words that Eika stalked these woods. Ai, Lady. Were they hunting for Steleshame? Would they never let the refugees rest? Would they find her? She knew what they did to children. But she kept her hands buried in the dirt, the smell of onions sharp in her nostrils, and prayed to the Lord and Lady, lips forming unspoken words. If she could only stay still, and hidden, they would pass by without seeing her.

Then she could run back and warn Matthias
—and all the
others.

She heard the snick, like a nail flicking against a kettle, heard a hiss of air and then a sudden grunt. A howl of rage pierced the air not ten paces from her, at her back. She dared not move. She stifled a sob, grasping onions and dirt in her hands as, behind her, foresters converged on the Eika and a bitter fight ensued.

"Don't run,"
Matthias had always counseled her.
"If you run, they'll see you."
And anyway, if she ran, she'd probably never find this trove of onions again.

A man shrieked. Branches snapped and splintered in a wave of sound, and a heavy weight hit the ground so hard and close behind her that she felt the shudder through her knees. An arrow thunked into wood. Metal rang, meeting another blade. A man shouted a warning. Many feet crashed through the undergrowth and someone cursed.

Then came many voices raised at once, running feet, undergrowth torn and broken, and a drumming like many blows thrown down upon the earth
—or on some object. Silence.

She dared not raise her head. A thin liquid puddled by her left hand, lapping over and wetting her little finger. It stung like the kiss of a bee. Moving her head a bare fraction, she risked a glance back over her shoulder.

An outflung hand reached for her. Eyes stared at her, and lips pulled back from sharp teeth, a mouth opened wide in a last grimace. Every part of her that was not her actual physical body bolted up and fled, screaming in terror
—but her training held. She did not move, and after an instant of such terror that her stomach burned, she realized the Eika had fallen, dead, almost into her hiding place. Farther away, she heard foresters talking. "I only saw two." "They scout in pairs." "Where's their dogs?"

"Ai, Lord, have you ever seen their dogs, lad? Scout with them dogs and you tell everyone where you're passing. They never scout with their dogs, and it's just as well for us. I swear the dogs are harder to kill than the damned savages."

"What do we do with these two, now?" "Leave them be and let the maggots and flies have them, if such creatures can even eat Eika."

Shuddering, she picked herself up, wiping her fingers clean of the greenish liquid that had oozed from the wound where an arrow had embedded itself in the Eika's throat. She had harvesting to do. The onions came up easily, but she trembled as she worked, even knowing the Eika couldn't hurt her now. "Hey there! What's this?".

Men thrashed through the undergrowth and she glanced up to see two of them hacking at the thicket, then peering over the broken and crushed leaves, at
her.

"Ai, I know you," said one of the foresters. "You're the child what came out of Gent early summer." He didn't ask what she was doing; he didn't need to. "God's blood, but you came close to having your throat slit, lass. You'd better get back to town." He waved his companion away. "What have you found there, child?"

"Onions," she said, suddenly afraid he would take them away from her.

But he merely nodded, pulled a colored stick from his belt, and stuck it beside the tree to mark the find. "Don't take them all, now. That's the problem with you folk, you take everything and don't leave anything to go to seed for next year. You must husband what you find, just as a farmer saves seed to sow and doesn't use it all for bread."

She stared at him, waiting for him to move off, and he sighed and stepped back. "Nay, child, I'll take nothing from you. We're better off who live out here than you poor orphans nearby the town. That Gisela, she's a cunning householder and would indenture you all if she had room for it. Go on, then."

She jumped up and scuttled away, clutching the precious onions against her. After she could no longer see the foresters, she stopped to make a fold in her skirt, laying the onions in the fold and tucking the fabric up under her belt, a makeshift pouch for her new treasure. She peered up through leaves at the sky. It was hot, if not unpleasant, but well past noontide
—time to be heading back so that she would not be caught out after dark. She arranged her shawl on her back to drape over one shoulder and around the opposite hip. With a practiced backward motion she filled this sling with firewood: anything loose, dry, and not too heavy for her to carry.

Thus laden, she arrived back at camp in the late afternoon. She drew her sling of firewood over the lump in her skirt, hiding her trove of onions as she cut across the camp on her way to the tannery. Once this stretch of ground had also been woodland, harvested under the supervision of Gisela, mistress of the holding of Steleshame which sat on the rise above. Now Anna saw only stumps where there had once been scrub forest. Goats had eaten the last of the greenery except in the carefully fenced and hoarded vegetable patches. All the scattered seeds had long since been eaten by chickens and geese, and any least stick or twig had gone to cookfires. When the rains fell, mud washed every pathway into a river of filth that wound through the maze of shelters and huts.

Here, at Steleshame, many of the refugees from Gent had encamped last spring, washed up like sticks and leaves after a flood. News of so many children had excited the concern or greed of folk living west of the holding, and about a third of the orphans had been taken away to towns and villages, some to good situations, some, no doubt, to bad.

But hundreds remained behind. Most had nowhere else to go. Some refused to leave the vicinity of Gent, while others were simply too weak to attempt to walk to more distant settlements. Not even Mistress Gisela's displeasure could force them to move on.