Lavastine’s horse stood outside the great timber hall that was the lord’s and lady’s residence. At least half of the mounted soldiers had left their horses there and gone on, into the hall, following their count; several terrified stableboys held the horses. Alain ran inside.
The hounds were swarming up the steps that led to the spacious loft above the long hall where the lady and her kinswomen and children and the servants lived. The battle madness was still in their eyes. Alain sprinted and grabbed the last one in the pack by its thin tail, and yanked it backward. It spun, biting.
“Sorrow! Down!”
Of a miracle, it worked. Sorrow sat. Ahead on the steps, hearing his voice, Rage sat as well. But the others flowed upward like water running uphill: impossible to stop unless one is truly a sorcerer, for only by sorcery can such an unnatural act be realized.
Alain took the steps two at a time. He shoved through the hounds and though they nipped at him, they were too intent on their prey to worry about one slender youth in their midst. Lavastine walked forward, sword still raised. He appeared oblivious to the hounds and the threat they posed—not to him, of course, but to the women and children and handful of men who, step by slow step, cowered back toward the far wall of the great hall.
Only two had the courage to step forward. Alain recognized the young Lady Aldegund at once; she was certainly no older than he was, though clearly she was now a woman, no longer a child. Pale and shaking, she took a staff and advanced toward Lavastine, crying: “What is this, cousin? Why have you come in such warlike guise to a hall which greets you in friendship and love?”
She held her six-month-old infant in her arms, the child who it had been suggested might become heir to the childless Lavastine. One older woman, weeping, stepped out beside her, as if to throw herself before her lady, to save her from Lavastine’s sword or the hounds’ bloody fangs.
Alain grabbed tails and flanks, but still they slipped out and charged. They meant to kill her. They would kill her, if no one acted, and likely tear the infant child to pieces.
So he laid about him with the butt of his spear, without thought to the consequences. And he cried out sharply as he beat them back.
“Sit! Down! You will obey me, you beasts! Sit!” Terror had actually reached the lady’s skirts before Alain hit the hound so hard alongside the head that the animal was stunned. But the rest, finally, sat, though they growled menacingly, eyes fixed on the huddled mass of Lady Aldegund’s household.
Lavastine did not sheathe his sword. “You will pledge your loyalty to Lady Sabella’s cause, or you will leave,” he said.
Aldegund gasped aloud. She looked about to faint, but when her faithful kinswoman touched her on the elbow, she steadied herself. “That is impossible,” she said proudly. “My kin traces its allegiance back to the first King Henry, when Queen Conradina passed over her brother Eberhard in favor of naming Henry, then Duke of Saony, as her heir. Though I married into a Varrish family, I will not betray the faith my kin have held in their hearts for so many generations.”
How much it cost her to say this Alain could not imagine. He no longer knew what Lavastine would do. Surely she could not know either and she with a babe in her arms and two young stepchildren to protect. And of course she could not know, not yet, what had happened to her husband.
Lavastine remained unmoved by this brave statement. He said, in that flat voice: “You will give me the children as surety for your good behavior. Then you will leave this place with your retinue and return to your mother’s lands.”
“These are my mother’s lands!” Aldegund protested. “They were given to me upon my marriage! You cannot take them!”
“Can you prevent me? These lands now serve Lady Sabella’s cause. I will set a chatelaine over them until such time as you choose the wiser course and support Sabella, or until Sabella herself appoints a new lady to administer them.” He gestured, and his men—rather hesitantly but without any appearance of moving to contravene his orders—came forward, rounding up the children.
Alain had finished tying the hounds together on a long leash. They nipped and snarled at each other, but they no longer resisted him. Only Rage and Sorrow did he trust enough to leave off the leash. They sat by the stairs like sentries, watching.
Aldegund clutched the infant against her breast. “This one I will not give up!” she exclaimed. “I am still nursing her. It is an offense against Our Lady to take children unwillingly from their mothers!”
“Leave her the infant at least, Count Lavastine,” Alain muttered. He could not know whether the count had heard him.
