The Gathering Storm (30 page)

It is Ivar. Joy chokes her. Is it possible he still lives? Heat burns her face as she leans closer, trying to get his attention
.

“Hanna? You’ll burn yourself!”

She broke free of the vision to find herself in the church, blinking dry eyes, tears wicked away by the flame. The lamp hissed and flickered, but it was an ordinary flame, just like all the others that lit the nave.

“For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth in a time of want, and for peace in this country, let us pray.”

“Hanna?” Rufus had hold of her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “Are you feeling faint? I thought you would fall into the lamp.”

“Nay.” Her tongue felt swollen, and she was dizzy, both heartsick and elated. “Eagle’s Sight.”

He flushed, easy to see with that complexion, and dipped his head shamefacedly. “I know what they say, and what some of the others claim, but I’ve never seen any vision in fire or water.” He hesitated, realized he still clutched her arm, and let go as though she were poison. His expression had a dark stain on it, and his lips were twisted down. “What about you?”

She shook her head too quickly. “Just shadows in the flames. Like now. Just shadows.”

“Blessed are the humble and patient, for the grace of God shall descend upon them at the end of days. Blessed are the pure in heart, for their glory will shine forever.”

“Amen,” she and Rufus said in unison with the rest of the congregation.

Believing Ivar might yet be alive was almost worse than resigning herself to his death.

A cleric came forward to deliver the Hefensday lesson. The man looked vaguely familiar, but probably that was only because of his beardless face and the cut of his hair, trimmed and shaven in the manner of a male cleric who has put aside the duties of a man of the world, husbanding and warring and sowing, for the cares of the Hearth. He waited a moment for folk to shift on the hard benches, for silence to open a space for listening. The stone walls muted all sound; she could not hear a single thing from outside, as though they were no longer in Darre but translated to holy space, sundered from the world.

“I pray you, sisters and brothers, take heed of the lesson that God utters on this day, the feast day dedicated to St. Dominica.”

The words of the liturgy were familiar to her; she knew what the prayers meant even when she did not recognize every single word. But the startling change—that he was speaking in Wendish—struck her so hard after so many months in Aosta hearing a foreign language day in and day out, that it took her a moment to follow what he was saying.

“So it happened that one day after the rains the beloved child walked out among the hills. As she walked along the stream’s edge below the overhanging cliff, the rocks came loose and fell down upon her, burying her.

“Her powerful companions howled and cried out in vain! The lion roared and the bull bellowed and the great eagle screamed, but they could not find the child beneath the vast expanse of rubble.

“The humble wren, least of birds, flew to the top of the pile of rocks and sang, ‘Hush!’ When all at last quieted, they heard the small voice of the child, crying. She was still alive underneath the rock.

“How the lion roared and the bull bellowed and the great eagle screamed! But despite their powerful voices, and their biting claws, and all the strength of their limbs, they could not shift the rock.

“The blind mole peeked out from the earth and said, ‘I can
dig a hole to the trapped child, and through this hole she can crawl to safety.’

“‘But how long will it take?’ objected the wise owl. ‘Surely the child will die before a creature as small and weak as you can dig a tunnel large enough for her to creep through!’

“The lion roared, and the bull bellowed, and the great eagle screamed, but all their powerful voices joined together could not feed the child trapped beneath the rock.

“The small brown field mouse called her sisters and brothers, her cousins, and all her kin. They slipped between cracks in the rock and carried in bits of bread and acorn cups of water to the trapped child, and in this way kept her alive for seven days while the patient mole dug a hole deep through the earth broad enough for the child to escape.

“And the lion and the bull and the great eagle remained silent, when they saw that it was the work of their humble brethren that saved the child.”

Hanna rested her head on clasped hands. Strange that he should seem to be speaking intimately a message meant for her ears. Looking up, she noticed the three young clerics seated on the foremost bench. As though her gaze were a greeting, the tall one glanced back. Hadn’t this young woman called one of her companions “Sister Heriburg,” the same name mentioned in passing by the servant woman, Aurea?

“They know her,” she murmured.

“I beg pardon?” whispered Rufus.

“Nay, nothing,” she demurred, but in her gut she knew. They wanted her to see them and to hear this lesson about the work of the humble and the small. The knowledge coursed up through the soles of her feet, making her unsteady. It almost seemed the lamp beside her was swaying.

Ivar’s sister Rosvita
was
alive, buried in the dungeon because she had witnessed what the powerful wanted kept secret. Hathui had told the truth.

A rumble hummed up from the ground, a grinding roar like a distant avalanche. The lamp swung on its chains as the feet of the tripod skipped along stone. A woman sobbed out loud. Under Hanna’s rump, the bench rocked as though shoved.

Rufus swore. “Damn! Not another one!”

Voices rose in agitation and fear. People bolted for the
door, and by the time Hanna realized that the rumbling and rocking had stopped, the church had half cleared out. Yet from outside, through the open doors, she still heard a hue and cry. By the Hearth, the cleric who had been preaching stepped aside to talk to the three young clerics; they looked drawn and anxious as they listened to the growing clamor: A distant horn sounded the call to arms.

A woman hurried back in through the doors, followed by a dozen companions.

“Shut the doors!” she cried in Wendish. “There’s a riot! They say they’re going to kill every Wendishman they can find!” Folk rushed to the doors, shutting them and stacking benches as a barrier. “Ai, Lady! It was the breadline! All those folk went wild.”

The door shuddered as a weight hit it from the outside, causing the left door to creak, shift, and crack open.

“Help us!” shrieked one of the men up front. With several companions he slammed the opening door shut.

Hanna ran forward with Rufus and set her shoulder to the doors. Blows vibrated through her body as she leaned hard against the wood. Through the wood she heard the screaming of men and women, their words incomprehensible because of rage and the heady wildness of a mob inflamed by hunger and fear. Incomprehensible because it was a foreign tongue, not her own. An ax blow shook the door, followed by a second.

“We’ll never hold out! They’ll kill us all!”

A babble of voices rose within the heart of the church as the assembled worshipers wept, moaned, and wailed.

“I pray you!” cried the cleric who had spoken the lesson. “Do not despair. Do not panic. God will protect us.”

“They only have one ax,” shouted Hanna between blows, “or else they’d be chopping more quickly. Is there another way out of the church? Or another way in that we should be guarding?”

“Oh, God,” wailed an unseen soul in the sobbing crowd. “The deacon’s sanctuary has a door to the alley!”

Too late. An unholy shriek cut through the wailing. The deacon who had led the service staggered out from the low archway that led back to the sanctuary. When she fell forward onto her knees, they all saw the knife stuck in her back.

“Use the benches!” shouted Hanna as the door shook. The mob had evidently given up pushing from outside and was now waiting for the ax wielder to destroy the door. “Pick them up and use them as shields. Throw them. Two can lift one.”

Her muscles throbbed already, bruised under the assault. The door shuddered again. Splinters, like dust, spit from the wood. How soon would the ax cut through? It was only a matter of time. Yet if they left the door to face the new assault, they would be hit from two sides.

No one moved. Two ragged men burst from the archway. The leader stumbled over the deacon and went down hard, cursing as his companion tripped over him.

“Rufus!” Hanna leaped away from the door with Rufus right behind her and ran toward the altar. “Grab a bench!” she shouted to the paralyzed clerics, who stared as the two toughs got up and hoisted broken chair legs like clubs. She grabbed an end of a bench as Rufus hoisted the other end.

“Out of the way.” The male cleric shoved the three young women aside.

“Heave!”

Hanna and Rufus launched the bench as the two toughs ran forward. It slammed into them, knocking them backward to the floor. She heard a bone snap. One screamed. The other, falling hard, cracked the back of his head on the stone and went limp.

She grabbed the chair leg out of his hand. Rufus tugged the bloody knife out of the deacon’s back. The tall cleric had gone over to the deacon’s side and with commendable composure had got hold of her ankles to drag her aside, leaving a trail of blood.

“More will come in that way,” said Hanna. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.” She turned to the cleric who had given the lesson. “Can the sanctuary door be fixed closed?”

“Yes. I’ll show you.”

“Is there nothing you can use for a weapon?”

“I cannot fight in such a manner,” he said quietly, but he picked up the holy lamp that lit the Hearth and jerked the altar cloth off the Hearth with such a tug that the precious silver vessels fell clattering to the floor, holy wine and pure water splashing onto the stone and running along cracks to
mingle with the deacon’s blood. “This will shield me somewhat. Sister Heriburg,” he added, handing the lamp to the stoutest of the young clerics, “you must see that these criminals do not escape or harm anyone else.”

“How can I?”

“You must.” To Hanna and Rufus: “This way.”

Hanna had never stood in any choir, never ventured beyond the Hearth into any sanctuary where deacons and clerics meditated in silence and communed with God. In such places deacons slept, and the church housed its store of precious vestments and vessels for the service. She caught a closer glimpse of the two faded tapestries hanging on the choir walls, then ducked under the arch with the cleric and Rufus behind her, the club upraised to ward off blows. Two steps took them down into a low, square room, drably furnished with a simple cot, a chair, a table, and a chest. Two burning lamps hung peaceably from iron tripods. The table lay upended, torn pages of a prayer book strewn along the floor in among broken fragments of a smashed chair. The chest lay open, and a young man with dirty hair and dirtier clothing pawed through it so eagerly that he did not see Hanna and the others come up behind him. It was impossible to tell from this angle if he had a knife. Alarmingly, there was no one else in sight, although the door that led outside, cut under an even lower arch, stood ajar.

All this she took in before the youth looked up. With a startled grimace, lips pulled back like a dog baring its teeth, he groped at his belt.

“The door,” cried Hanna, jumping forward. She brought the chair leg down on his head as a knife flashed in his hand. He dropped like a stone. The knife fell between a pair of holy books he’d discarded on the floor in his haste to find treasure.

Distantly, through the open door, she heard a second horn call followed by shouts of triumph and fear.

With a thud, the side door slammed into place, muffling the sounds from outside. Grunting with effort, Rufus dropped a bar into place. Through the archway that led back into the church, Hanna heard an odd scuffling sound. The steady drone of weeping and wailing drowned out the noise of the crowd pounding at the front doors.

“Why isn’t there such a bar for the church doors?” she asked as the three of them stared first at each other and then at the youth lying unconscious on the floor.

“The door leading to God’s Hearth must always remain open,” said the cleric, “and there is always a cleric or deacon awake to tend the lamps by the Hearth. But thieves may sneak in through the side door; seeking silver and silk while God’s servant rests here in solitude. What do we do with this one?”

This one
had warts on his nose and hands and pustulant sores along his lower lip. His stink made her cough. His wrists were as thin as sticks. Hunger had worn shadows under his eyes. Drool snaked down from his slack mouth into his fledgling beard.

“Is there rope?” Rufus was grinning a little, sweating and excited. “We’ve got to tie him up.”

The youth moaned. They heard a shout and the slap of footsteps, and one of the young novices burst into the room.

“The king has returned! He’s at the gates. The mob is running away. We’re saved, Brother Fortunatus!”

They were all too tense to relax even at such hopeful news, and Brother Fortunatus gave Hanna such a look as an escaped slave might give to his companion just before the chains are clapped back on them.

“For now, Sister Gerwita.” He nodded at the moaning youth. “Drag him outside and let him go. I would not hand any poor soul over to the justice of the city guard.”

“But—” Rufus began.

“Nay,” said Fortunatus. “He still had his knife on him, so he’s not likely the one who assaulted Deacon Anselva. His only crime is poverty, and he stole nothing, after all. The other two must face justice for what they did to the deacon.”

Cheers broke out from the church, echoing through the archway. Hanna grabbed the youth’s ankles and dragged him out the door after Fortunatus unbarred and opened it.

Although twilight hadn’t yet faded into full darkness, the walls leaned so closely together in the alley that she had to pick her way by feel, stepping more than once into piles of noxious refuse. The stink was overwhelming. She shoved the boy up against the wall of the church. He stirred, retching. She stumbled back to the open door. Looking up the alley, she
saw the thoroughfare beyond—torches and lamps lighting a magnificent procession. A roar of noise echoed among the buildings, the ring of hooves on paved streets, shouting and cheering and an undercurrent of jeering in soft counterpoint amid the clamor. Smoke stung her nostrils. The peal of the fire bell summoned the city guard.