“Are they sick?” demanded Sapientia, who had finally dismounted after riding around in the trees for a while, looking for someone else to fight. She had returned from the woods to declare she would ride back to the battle, but Constance had forestalled that with a direct order, aunt to niece, and even the brash Sapientia dared not go against a biscop’s command. Constance could not be more than four or five years older than Sapientia, but her authority far outweighed that of her brother’s daughter.
“I do not know if they are sick,” she said now, “but we must be cautious. I have heard many tales of the plague in Autun, which was hard hit by a sickness some twenty years ago. Take them aside and guard them, but let none touch them.”
Biscop Antonia showed no sign of the disease, nor did the one young cleric who stood closest to her. But Constance did not look likely to let the biscop out of her sight, sickness or no.
“You will answer for what you did, Antonia,” said Constance.
“We all answer to God,” said Antonia reasonably.
A thunder of hooves alerted them. Sapientia’s captain had returned with the rest of her troops but without the skirmishers from Saony. His expression was chilling. “What is wrong?” cried Sapientia.
Antonia smiled knowingly.
“Good captain,” said Constance in a firm but calm voice. “What news do you bring?”
He appeared stricken. “The Lord has blessed us with victory, Your Grace, but a terrible prize it is this day.” For one instant, Antonia’s triumphant expression was wiped clean to show something nastier, cunning and brittle, beneath. Hanna glanced toward Constance, who looked grave—as well she might. When she looked back at Antonia, the old biscop had regained her usual expression, as placid as a saint’s, as smooth as cream, and Hanna had to shake her head, wondering if she had imagined that other face.
“Give us your report,” said Constance. Sapientia looked likely to grab her horse and gallop away, but— after one sharp look from Constance—she stayed where she was.
The captain dismounted and knelt before her. “Victory belongs to King Henry, but at high cost. Many lie dead on the field, for Sabella used—” Here he faltered. “—she brought a creature on the field, a terrible thing that truly must have sprung from an evil sire, and by its magic her army slew fully half or more of Henry’s army—aye, indeed, almost all of his Lions—while they stood frozen on the field, held in the grip of some misbegotten enchantment.”