The Gathering Storm (40 page)

“Jehan and Jerome have carried Sister Rosvita up! Anyone might come! There’s nothing we can do for these people!”

“We could let them go.”

“Who knows what terrible crimes they have committed? Why else would the skopos have confined them here? Did you not hear the apostate crying out the Oath made by the fire worshipers?”

“What if they are unjustly imprisoned, as Sister Rosvita was?”

“We dare not take that chance. What if even one of them is mad and tries to stop us? We must escape with Sister Rosvita before more people come. I assure you that the skopos, Presbyter
Hugh, and the queen herself will not rest until they find her, once they know she is gone. I
pray
you, Eagle.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing none of the prisoners could hear her although she heard them, their voices rising with despair and panic. “God, forgive me.”

They took the last oil lamp, leaving the dungeons in a foul darkness.

A strange power afflicted her limbs, so that she raced up the steps and yet was not winded when they reached the top. The air reeked of dust and hot ash, scalding her lungs. By the Dead Man’s Gate they found Aurea and two of the young sisters waiting with a mule, a broken-backed nag of a mare, and a handcart in which the young brothers had already laid Sister Rosvita most tenderly, cushioning her on a blanket and covering her with another. The young women fussed and whispered, unwilling to let go of Rosvita’s hands, chafing them, kissing them. Aurea had hold of the mounts. She wept silent tears, so overcome with emotion that her face had settled into a grimace as she stared fixedly into the darkness toward the main portion of the palace. The sound of soldiers marching, of a horn and drums, assailed them. Were the soldiers leaving the palace to march down into the city by the main gate, or were they returning in force to garrison the palace? Hanna could not tell. Lights moved on the narrow path that led down to the riverside.

“Fortunatus.” That croak of a voice had gained power. “What has happened? Why am I here?”

Dry-eyed, Fortunatus kissed Rosvita’s hands fervently. “God brought about a miracle, Sister.” He was distracted by the sound of hurried footfalls, the slap of sandals. “Where is Heriburg?” he demanded.

“She
would
go off!” cried one of the girls aggrievedly.

There she came, laden with books. “I have your
History
, Sister!” she cried as she caught sight of them. “I knew you would not rest easy if we had to leave it behind. We must hurry. A whole troop of soldiers is marching in.”

“The books!” Rosvita lay back in the cart, exhausted.

Heriburg thrust the books in and around the cleric’s legs and Hanna pulled the blanket over her completely, concealing her.

“Come,” Hanna said. “We’ll take turns with the cart. Let any who question us be told that we’re rescuing books and cartularies from the king’s schola.”

It took four of them to negotiate the cart down the steep path, but they had better luck along the avenue that led directly to the western gate. None of the buildings on this stretch had collapsed, although they still had to negotiate the many people milling along the roadway, too afraid to go back inside to fetch their belongings yet unwilling to leave the city without their worldly possessions. A few shouted curses at them, as though the Wendish had brought the disaster down on the city. One man threw a stone that cut an ugly gash on Aurea’s cheek.

They kept their heads down after that, and Hanna was glad they weren’t leaving by the eastern gate, where anti-Wendish sentiment seemed more volatile. The roar of sound, shouting, wailing, drums, a booming crash that reverberated and collapsed at last into a long rumbling echo, the bleating of goats and the barking of frantic dogs, drove them on.

When they came to the gates, there were indeed guardsmen, but they trundled past in the safety of a mob of complaining, crying women, laundresses by their garb and talk, laden with bedding and dripping garments.

“May God have mercy,” murmured Fortunatus as they cleared the wall.

They had escaped.

They pushed on, looking fearfully from one side to the other, afraid that someone might recognize them and call to them, but no one did. They walked, switching off at the hand cart, trudging along the road with thousands of refugees. Everywhere, in the fields and along the open pastureland that surrounded the city, people had halted in exhaustion. No one dared to spend the rest of the night under a roof.

All this Hanna saw in glimpses, shapes lost in darkness. Dust swathed the sky behind them, veiling half the sky. It was, horribly, a new moon, so dark that the eerie glow of dozens of fires within the city walls, darkened and intensified by the pall of dust, made the place glow like a furnace, the forge of the ancient gods who had once ruled here. Maybe
they had returned to wreak their vengeance at last. Maybe God had punished the interlopers.

She took a turn at the cart, pushing until she thought her hands would fall off, teeth gritted as she followed the bobbing lamp held by Jehan. No one had ridden the mounts yet. Without saying as much, they all agreed to save the strength of the poor beasts for later. None of them ate. Hanna wasn’t sure if they had provisions, even water. Her throat ached.

The night wore on endlessly as they took turns pushing the cart and, later, spelling themselves with a ride on the mule. Soon they left the refugees behind and made their solitary way along the deserted road. After a time, the ground sloped up. They had reached the foothills. Pausing partway up the first slope to catch their breath, they all turned to look back the way they had come. Fortunatus pulled the blanket back so that Sister Rosvita could see and held a lamp aloft beside her.

Darre was burning, not just the city itself but the plain all around, the glow of bonfires where people camped out and, closer in to the walls, lines of funeral pyres. Most strangely, to the southwest, in the mountains, the air was spitting sparks. She shuddered. The earth rumbled and stilled beneath her feet.

“Where do we go?” asked Fortunatus. “We can’t cross the Alfar Mountains this late in the year.”

Silence greeted his words. Even Hanna did not know what to suggest. She and Fortunatus had led them this far, but they had come to the end of a rope spun from impulsiveness, courage, and loyalty. Once Hugh discovered in what direction they had fled, he would pursue them.

She shivered as a cold wind drifted down from the highlands.

Rosvita stirred, stretching her limbs. “Listen,” she said in her croak of a voice. “Listen.”

They listened, but they heard only the night wind. Even the noise of the city had fallen behind them.

“We must go where they cannot follow, and pray that we will be given shelter.” With some effort she raised herself on her elbows. Her hair had gone utterly white, startling even through the grime of the dungeon. “We must go to the Convent
of St. Ekatarina. Mother Obligatia helped us once before. If she still lives, I pray that she will aid us again.”

ON that morning when Hathumod and her companions left Hersford Monastery, the whispering hadn’t gone away with them. For days and weeks after they left, as autumn lingered and winter gathered its strength, their heretical words endured like a ghostly presence among the inhabitants of the monastery and estate. Doubt haunted the monks and the laborers. Many scoffed, but others whispered of signs and miracles, of a phoenix, of lions, and of seven innocent and holy sleepers lost beneath a hill.

Although Father Ortulfus delivered more than one furious sermon on the dangers of heresy, even he could be found at odd intervals consulting books in the library or standing lost in contemplation at the edge of the forest, seeming to stare, as Sorrow had that night, at an unseen threat—or toward a promise.

IT was a dreary ride in horrible cold weather from Hersford Monastery to Autun. Ivar lost count of the passing days as their escort prodded them grimly along. Once they were forced to spend a week locked up in a freezing outbuilding at a convent because ice floes made a river crossing impassable. Once Prior Ratbold came down with such a bad fever that they had to bide in the stables at an isolated monastic estate while the prior thrashed in delirium, but by the fifth day he sweated out whatever evil humors plagued him and within two weeks felt strong enough to set out again. No one else got sick.

At Dibenvanger Cloister, Sigfrid almost got his tongue cut out a second time when he squeezed through a gap between boards—he was the only one small enough to fit—and sneaked into the novices’ house to preach for the whole evening before Prior Ratbold noticed he was missing.

“A fox among the chickens!” the furious prior roared. “The only way to stop him is to make sure he can’t speak!”

The mild-mannered abbot of Dibenvanger Cloister dissuaded Ratbold from any violent acts and sent them on their
way the next morning, but not before coming himself at dawn to counsel the wayward prisoners.

“Do not despair, friends,” he said quietly. “You are not alone.”

These mysterious words lifted Ivar’s spirits as the days wore on.

Yet when at last they descended into the Rhowne Valley, a fit of melancholy swept over him. The painful anticipation wore him out. How would Biscop Constance rule at their trial? Would she be lenient or severe? Would they face excommunication? Even death? It seemed impossible to hold onto resolve through bad times as well as good.

The Rhowne Valley was rich country, well populated with prosperous holdings and verdant estates. Even blanketed by snow the roads and fields had a tidy look to them, well traveled and well tended. Biscop Constance shepherded a thriving flock.

A bell hung under a thatched awning by the ferry crossing. Prior Ratbold rang the bell. The rest of them dismounted and led the horses around to keep them warm while, on the other side, the ferryman emerged from his cottage, surveyed their distant party, went back into his house, and came out a while later to haul the ferry across by a cable strung over the broad river.

It took three crossings to get them all across. While he waited, Ivar brooded.

Gerulf and Dedi went over with the first load. The two Lions had developed a friendly banter with the monks who were their guards; three of the monks had been in the Lions before they’d retired from war and the world and dedicated their lives to the church. Despite their misgivings about the heretical charges set on Gerulf’s and Dedi’s heads, they still respected former comrades. It was its own form of kinship, based not on family ties but on shared service to the king. They’d fought, seen comrades fall, suffered and marched and remained faithful.

Prior Ratbold, a younger son of a noble house, had no such reason to treat his charges kindly. His family had no connection to any of theirs, and their families weren’t important
enough to matter to him. To Ratbold, they were sinful heretics, nothing else.

Maybe Ivar’s sister Rosvita could have helped him, had she wished to, but she wasn’t here. And his father had long since contrived to get rid of him. The old familiar desolation washed over him as he clutched the railing of the ferry in the last group to go across. Brownish-green waters swirled beyond his boots. A big branch thudded against the side of the ferry, rocking them and disturbing the horses, before the river’s grip carried it on.

Everyone had deserted him. His father had never cared for him, not really, and he’d been an infant when his mother had died. To his brothers and sisters, he was a nuisance, the red-haired baby who got in their way. Hanna had ridden away to become an Eagle. Liath had tempted him and then abandoned him for the embrace of a prince. Yet his life had been good before Hugh had come to Heart’s Rest. He had a memory of how much he had once hated Hugh, a feeling like holding a burning blade in your hand. Hate had felt good once. Now his hate streamed away with the river’s water, flowing downriver to the sea.

If he threw himself in the river, no one would miss him. Not even Hugh would care. Hugh probably didn’t even remember his name.

The river tugged at the ferry as it tugged at his heart. He saw figures in the water, water nymphs calling to him and stretching out their arms as they beckoned and wept.
Come to us
, they said as their bodies undulated through choppy wavelets.
Come to us
. A cold grave, but a peaceful one. He tightened his grip on the railing and leaned far over, giddy with despair. The water looked so comforting. So final.

“Are you crazy?” Baldwin grabbed Ivar’s shoulder, jerking him back. “You might fall over and drown, and then what would I do? You’re not even paying attention to what I was saying! Can you see it, there? That’s the tower of the biscop’s palace of Autun.”

Ivar’s eyes were too blurred with tears to see. Ermanrich appeared on his other side, setting a steadying hand on his elbow. “Yes, I see it, Baldwin,” he said, without letting go of Ivar.

“Don’t you see, Ivar?” demanded Baldwin impatiently. The river wind streamed through his pale hair; color blushed his fair cheeks. If the water nymphs were mourning and wailing, it was probably because they’d just realized they’d never get their hands on any creature as handsome as Baldwin. “The biscop’s banner isn’t flying over the palace. She’s not there! And if she’s not there, she can’t hold a trial!”