The Gathering Storm (32 page)

“And vagabonds, evidently!” replied Brother Lallo sourly. “At least they don’t have dogs with them! Come this way, then. You’re stout-looking fellows, I’ll give you that.”

“We are Lions in the king’s service,” said Gerulf, with real annoyance.

Lallo blinked. “Why aren’t you with the king?”

Dedi seemed about to speak, but Gerulf signed him to silence. “That is truly a long tale, and a cursed strange one, for I’ve seen such things as few would believe—” He broke off, rubbing his throat. “Ach, well. My throat’s too dry to talk much.”

“Come, come, then,” said Lallo eagerly. “We can find you mead. There’ll be porridge and apples for supper. A long tale would be welcome here.”

As Gerulf and Dedi walked off to the laborers’ dormitory, Baldwin gave Ivar, Ermanrich, and Sigfrid their share of the bread. Ivar wolfed his down before they reached the inner gate, but all it did was make him hungrier.

At the inner gate Brother Felicitus handed them over to the rotund guest-master, who saw them washed and fitted with clean robes appropriate to their status and brought them to the abbot’s table just in time for the evening’s feast.

Father Ortulfus was young, vigorous, and handsome. He had a sarcastic eye but a gleam of humor in his expression as he rose to welcome his guests. The dozen monks seated at the abbot’s table gaped at Baldwin, who had cleaned up nicely. “My spies brought news of your arrival. There are places for you on these humble benches.”

Since all the furniture in the abbot’s dining room was elaborately carved and painted, as befit the son of a noble house, Ivar merely smiled. “You are most gracious, Father Ortulfus. We have traveled a most strange road. I am Ivar—”

“—son of Count Harl of the North Mark and his late wife, Lady Herlinda,” finished Ortulfus. “Before I became abbot, I had the honor of being a member of Biscop Constance’s schola. I will not soon forget the trial of Hugh of Austra before an assembled council in Autun. Nor, I suppose, will you, Brother Ivar.”

Ivar knew his fair complexion branded him, since his
blushes could never be hidden. His cheeks burned. “Nay, I suppose I will not.”

Baldwin had already found a seat next to a slender monk of aristocratic bearing whose expression was, alas, not at all pure as he offered to share his platter, on which lay a steaming and handsomely spiced whole chicken. Ermanrich and Sigfrid held back at the door, waiting for Ivar’s reaction.

“God knows Father Hugh was arrogant,” said Ortulfus as his retinue of monastic officials and highly placed brother monks watched avidly. “I suppose it comes of being the son of a margrave.” He glanced at Baldwin before smiling mordantly at Ivar. “I admit, Brother Ivar, that I wasn’t sorry to see you stand against Father Hugh, even if it was only because that sorcerer they spoke of had enchanted you as well.”

“Perhaps she did,” retorted Ivar, stung and flattered at the same time, “or perhaps Hugh was lying. I could tell you—”

“And I trust you will,” interrupted the abbot smoothly, “but I beg you to take drink and food first, for you look famished. When Biscop Constance raised me to the abbacy of Hersford Monastery, she strictly enjoined me to see that travelers were always well cared for. Will you not share a platter with me, Brother Ivar?”

No one could refuse such an honor. In this way, the four visitors were separated from each other and each given to one of the abbot’s officials to entertain. Wine flowed freely. The abbot did not stint when it came time to eat. The savory chicken was all Ivar could have hoped for, and it was succeeded by a clear broth to cleanse the palate, after which the meat course arrived, a side of roasted beef so heavy it took two servants to carry the platter. Three types of pudding followed the meat, each one richer than what came before, and there were also apples, pears, plums, cherries, and the sticky honey cakes common to feast days.

As the meal wore on, Ivar realized that this astounding repast was, indeed, in honor of a saint’s day. A young monk with a face so undistinguished that one hesitated to look twice at him sang most sweetly various hymns in praise of St. Ingrith, she who was patron of weavers and benefactor to every person who has faced down and wrestled with an unexpected setback.

The battle against the Quman had been fought in late Aogoste. The feast day of St. Ingrith was celebrated in late Setentre, almost a full month after the equinox. Impossibly, in the two days since they had escaped the Quman, over one month had passed here at Hersford Monastery. Impossibly, they had traveled from the eastern borderlands all the way to the heart of Wendar by walking into—and out of—a barrow.

“You said you had a strange tale to tell us,” said Father Ortulfus. “I confess myself prey to the sin of curiosity, for I’m thinking that your handsome companion is the infamous young bridegroom of Margrave Judith, the same lad who vanished the night after Hugh of Austra’s trial.”

Although he hadn’t appeared to be paying attention to anything but his food, Baldwin leaped to his feet, ready to bolt. “I won’t go back to her!”

Ortulfus laughed in surprise. “Truly, you will not. Can it be you don’t know that she was killed in a battle against the Quman three years ago?”

The sickly sweet scent of plum wine made Ivar queasy. The infirmarian burped. The singer faltered and fell silent, and every man there turned to watch the abbot and his guest.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” said Ivar, pushing away his cup of plum wine. “We saw Margrave Judith lead her troops into battle against the Quman not one month ago, under the command of Princess Sapientia and Prince Bayan.”

The monks at table set down spoons and knives as they glanced nervously, or meaningfully, toward Father Ortulfus. Ivar studied them. Each man wore robes and a sigil to identify his place within the monastic order. The abbot wore an ivory Circle of Unity incised with perfectly articulated scenes in miniature from the life of the blessed Daisan. Beside him sat the rotund guest-master with his cloak pinned by a brooch in the shape of a wine barrel, signifying hospitality. The abbot’s trusted second-in-command, the prior; wore a dozen keys of all shapes and sizes on a gold chain around his neck. The infirmarian had his caduceus, the cellarer his silver spoon, the chief scribe his pen, the novice master a stylus, and the sacrist a little golden vessel representing the oil used to light the holy altar. Even the servants, tending the braziers set
in each corner to warm the room, wore brooches of bronze wire twisted into brooms, although with their burly shoulders and military bearing they looked as if they had only recently come from fighting in the wars.

“My friend,” said Father Ortulfus, measuring his words, “Prince Bayan has been dead these two years, killed at the battle of the Veser River. It’s a long road from the marchlands here to Hersford, one that can scarcely have been traversed in a month even by such stout fellows as you.” He moved his wine cup a hand’s width to the right.

A servingman entered, bent to whisper in the sacrist’s ear, and stood back to wait. With a nod of apology, the sacrist rose.

“I pray you, Father, we’ve run out of oil for the Hearth lamp.”

“Go on.”

The sacrist left, closing the door behind him.

Father Ortulfus went on. “After the trial at Autun, the court supposed that you had escaped Margrave Judith’s clutches with the aid of Prince Ekkehard, whose preference for Lord Baldwin had become, shall we say, well known. When we heard that Prince Ekkehard had married the new margrave, Gerberga, those of us who remembered the trial assumed that the marriage was in some measure payment for his earlier theft of Judith’s young husband. So you must imagine that your appearance here, at this late date, raises more questions than it answers.”

“Do sit down,” said Baldwin’s companion with an unctuous smile. “Won’t you have more honey cake?”

Baldwin stubbornly remained standing.

“You need not fear that any of us are loyal to the kinfolk of Margrave Judith,” added Father Ortulfus. “We are all first and foremost servants of our most gracious and magnificent biscop and duke, Constance.”

Both Ermanrich and Sigfrid looked at Ivar.

Ivar rose slowly. “Baldwin, I pray you. Sit down.” With a pretty frown, Baldwin sat. “Is this some trick, Father Ortulfus? We have traveled far and by strange paths, and we have witnessed miracles, not least of which was that God delivered us from the Quman. We have been given by God the obligation to bring the truth to those of you who still linger in darkness,
for it has come to us to know that the church has taught a falsehood these many years. For God so loved the world that She gave to us Her only Son, that He should take upon himself the measure of our sins.”

Ermanrich took up the litany. “He came before the Empress Thaissania, she of the Mask, and He would not bow down before her, for He knew that only God is worthy of worship. The empress had him flayed, as they did do to criminals in those days, and His heart was cut out and thrown into the courtyard, where it was torn into a hundred pieces by the dogs. Aren’t we, ourselves, those dogs?”

“I knew it!” thundered the prior. “Such babblings as we’ve heard from vagabonds this past year could not have sprung fully grown out of nowhere. Here’s the plague’s root!”

“A novice poisoned by heresy.” The abbot had elegant fury to spare. His disdain and disgust were a well-honed weapon. “So you were accused when you came forward at the trial of Hugh of Austra, Brother Ivar. Do you and your companions deny that the Mother and Father of Life brought forth the universe through the Word? Do you still profess this vile heresy of the Redemption?”

“It isn’t heresy! The king’s own sister, who is abbess at Quedlinhame, ordered Sigfrid’s tongue cut off as punishment because he kept speaking the truth. Yet he speaks with a purer voice than you or I, because of the miracle, when the phoenix rose out of the fire. Why would God have restored his voice if he spoke only falsehoods?”

“It was the sign of the blessed Daisan.” Sigfrid’s expression shone as he remembered that awesome moment when the phoenix’s wings had unfurled and it had risen in glory into the dawn, leaving a trail of flowers in its wake. “For the blessed Daisan also rose from death to become Life for us all.”

“You are still polluted,” said Father Ortulfus. “If you will walk with God, then walk in silence and free your heart from the Enemy’s grasp. Let there be no more of these tales, which spread like a plague upon the Earth!”

Too late Ivar recognized the servants for what they were: retired soldiers. Even the abbot had the bearing of a man who had fought in a battle or two as part of the biscop’s military host. They were many, and Ivar and his friends were few.

“But there
was
a phoenix,” objected Baldwin. “I hate it when people don’t believe me.”

“Where did this miracle take place?” demanded the prior.

“In the borderlands, some days east of Gent,” said Ivar.

“A conveniently long distance from here,” said the abbot.

“Have you any other witnesses?”

“The villagers saw it,” said Ermanrich.

“The villagers are not here, my friend. What of the Lions who accompany you? Or Lady Hathumod?”

“Prince Ekkehard saw it, as did all of his companions,” said Baldwin.

“Prince Ekkehard abides far to the east as well, and is now married to Margrave Gerberga—”

“He does not!” retorted Baldwin, who was never more indignant than when he was utterly sure of his ground. “He’s abbot of St. Perpetua’s in Gent. He can’t be married. And he was just at the battle with us. I saw him cut down!”

“It’s said Prince Ekkehard survived many things, including battles, captivity, and his own treasonous actions. I think your account must be confused, Brother Baldwin.”

“It is
not!
”

“Baldwin.” Ivar had a bad feeling that he was missing something very important. “Father Ortulfus, you must forgive us if we seemed confused. It seems to me that only a few nights have passed since I saw both Margrave Judith and Prince Bayan alive. It seems an ill omen when I hear you speak as if they’re dead.”

“Ivar!” Sigfrid’s whisper was like the murmuring of ghosts on the wind. Sigfrid had thought of something that the rest had not.

“What is it?”

“The year,” said Sigfrid diffidently.

“The year?”

“What year is it?”

“Any fool knows that it’s—um—what year is it, Sigfrid?” The prior made to speak, but Father Ortulfus silenced him simply by lifting a hand. “Go on, Brother Sigfrid,” said the abbot more kindly than before, although his sudden gentleness made Ivar unaccountably nervous. “What year is it?”

“The year of our Lord and Lady, seven hundred and
thirty,” answered Sigfrid quietly, but he had a sad little frown on his delicate face.

The door set into the wall behind the abbot’s seat opened. “My lord abbot,” said a brother, leaning his head in. “The brothers have assembled and are waiting for you.”

It was time for prayer.

“It
was
a miracle,” said Sigfrid stubbornly. Despite his small size and unprepossessing appearance, he had both the intelligence and strength of faith to speak with an authority that made others listen. “Ask if you will at Quedlinhame, for they will remember clearly enough when they cut out my tongue: How, then, can I speak now, if not by a miracle?”

“A difficult question to answer,” agreed Ortulfus, rising from his chair. His officials stood as well, leaving only Baldwin, Sigfrid, and Ermanrich on their benches. “Be sure I will write to Mother Scholastica for her account. But it will take many weeks or even months to get a reply, and I must decide what to do with you in the meantime. In truth, like any pestilence, heresy spreads quickly unless it is burned out.”

The monks blocked the doors, and while the chief of scribes hadn’t the ready stance of a fighter, the others looked able to hold their own in a scrap.

They were trapped.

“You are three years too late,” added Father Ortulfus. “This is the autumn of the year seven hundred and thirty-three since the Proclamation of the Holy Word by the blessed Daisan.”

Three years
.

Sigfrid swayed, and Ermanrich made a squeak, nothing more, as his eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open with an of surprise and disbelief. No one knew better than Ivar how well Sigfrid attended to his studies. Sigfrid hadn’t been wrong.