Like a flash of lightning, Baldwin’s pale hair showed up within the crowd. Ivar raised a hand to hail him.
Jonas said, “Who’s that?”
Baldwin strode up, rubbing at his beard. “They just won’t listen to me! There’s another man at the smithy with a dozen horses needing shoeing. I told him we were in haste, that we ride with an urgent message, but he said—” He took a second look at the men waiting on the steps, and choked, indicating the Quman. “That’s a Quman, Ivar! I thought we’d escaped them!”
Even the Quman savage was staring at Baldwin with the look of a young bull stunned by a sledge blow between the eyes. Lord Berthold’s eyes had gone quite round.
“He’s not our enemy, Baldwin. In what direction have you come from, Lord Berthold?”
“From the west, and the southwest, before that. We have traveled all the way north from Aosta, through St. Barnaria’s Pass. We only arrived here at Hersford this morning.”
“Then have you been all this time before us? Did you not see the Eika massing before Autun?”
“We came up a woodsman’s path east of the Rhowne. It’s an Eagle’s path, known to our guide. We did not see Autun at all, nor any Eika.” These matters were of little interest to him. Impatiently, he turned to Jonas. “We should go up to the crown. Maybe we can still find them.”
Jonas took a step back, shaking his head. “They’re dead, Berthold. Don’t believe otherwise.”
“Who is dead?” asked Baldwin.
A file of monks appeared. Ivar moved aside. Even the margrave’s son shifted to let them pass into the church for Vespers and Compline. In their wake, Prior Ratbold hurried up.
“I pray you, my lords,” he said. “Pray with us. It would do us honor.”
Berthold ran a hand nervously through his hair, still staring toward the half hidden swell of hill and forest rising to the west-northwest. Jonas tugged on his sleeve, and he retreated backward and through the door, looking over his shoulder at the darkening sky. The Quman sank to his haunches in the posture of a man prepared to wait all night. The prior frowned at him without specifically inviting him inside, then turned his accusing gaze on Ivar and Baldwin.
“Will you come inside, Brother Ivar? Brother Baldwin?” The question was as much challenge as request.
“Perhaps it would be better if we rode on tonight,” said Ivar.
“Of course we’ll pray!” Baldwin mounted the steps and went inside.
Ivar hesitated, glancing toward the distant smithy, where smoke poured heavenward in a steady, thin stream that faded quickly from sight as the twilight deepened.
“It would be safer for you to leave at daybreak,” said the prior. “Strange creatures walk abroad in the night, half man and half animal. You would be hard-pressed to see Eika scouts approaching you. Or their dogs.”
Ivar shuddered. Ratbold was a hard but basically decent man with a sharp temper and a carefully hidden mean streak; he didn’t mind seeing others squirm.
“Let the monks and the good folk see that you do not fear to bide here,” the prior continued. “Their hearts tremble, for they know that Father Ortulfus is lost to the Eika.”
“Not dead,” said Ivar. “He wasn’t killed, but only taken prisoner.”
“Just so! I beg you, stand and speak this word before the assembly. They will believe you, for you have seen it with your own eyes. Let us pray together to God, and plead with God to restore him to us. Is that too much to ask of you?”
Ivar could not refuse. Before the service began, he raised his voice and told the assembly of monks what he had seen. Afterward, he knelt with the others when it was appropriate to kneel, and stood when one must stand to sing. The stone floor ground into his knees. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung from the fumes seeping off torches bound from wood not yet thoroughly dry, mark of a wet winter and wetter spring. With each breath he sucked smoke in, and a slow, throbbing headache flowered into life behind his eyes as the liturgy sang around him.
“Blessed is the Country born out of the Mother of Life. Blessed is Her Son. Blessed is the Holy Word revealed, now and ever and unto ages of ages.”
One of the holy men paced out the stations of the blessed Daisan’s life and ministry, the seven miracles, and the final redemption, but it all seemed so hazy and so unfamiliar. Baldwin was happy, speaking the responses with enthusiasm.
“Kyrie eleison. Lady have mercy. For healthful seasons, for the abundance of the fruits of the earth, and for peaceful times, let us pray.”
