“Here, Brother Heribert, you must eat.” Wolfhere guided the cleric through his meal patiently. A bite, chew, swallow. A sip of ale. A bite, chew, swallow. “You must keep up your strength.”
“We are close now,” said the cleric. “Why do we not go on?”
“We are prisoners, Brother. We are set in a cage, here.”
“A cage,” the cleric repeated thoughtfully, or stupidly. Ivar could not tell which.
He leaned to speak to Berthold. “What is wrong with him?”
“Brother Heribert? He’s never been the same—well, so the others said who knew him—after we came out of the earth up in the Alfar Mountains. He was buried in a slide of earth, but we dug him out. He vanished from Novomo after Hugh of Austra murdered Lady Elene. I thought perhaps he had run off with Hugh the Bastard, but we found him much later, at St. Barnaria’s rest house, up on the pass as we crossed north. He was starving, for he never knew to eat, so I suppose some evil humor has disordered his mind. I wish I knew how he escaped, the night Hugh of Austra murdered Elene, and kidnapped the brat. But he won’t—or can’t—tell us.”
Wolfhere squatted beside them, nodding toward the oblivious Heribert, who was now counting and recounting the dead mice. Jonas grabbed the nest out of his hands and tossed it into another corner. Heribert made no protest but merely turned his gaze to stare at the weathered and cracking boards, as if he could see the wind itself as it brushed through the gaps in the byre’s walls.
“Poor creature,” the Eagle said. “He was a loyal companion to Sanglant.”
“So are we, are we not?” Ivar hesitated and glanced around but none of their guards stood within earshot.
“None of us said anything. Now Conrad and Sabella will not know until too late that the Eika are coming.”
“They have scouts and spies and outriders, all on alert,” said Berthold. “Listen, Wolfhere. How can we get news of the Eika to Sanglant? Or to his reserve army? They will be walking into the Eika trap as well.”
“If I had not lost my Eagle’s Sight… well, that is gone.”
“There is one other thing.” Berthold pressed an open hand over his tunic, patted his chest. “The writ of excommunication I carry here. If it’s true that Mother Scholastica no longer supports Sanglant, then this will bolster Conrad and Sabella’s claim.”