Hanna gaped at him, then bolted for the door that led out back.
“We’re going,” he repeated.
There was a puzzling urgency about him she could not understand. Certainly there was no point in resisting. She had already lost everything. He led her to the door and thence outside. Hanna came running from around the inn.
“I’ll just collect my clothes and such,” she called, out of breath. “I’ll be there. Don’t leave without me!”
Hugh gestured impatiently and kept walking. Liath was already too out of breath even to beg him not to leave Hanna behind.
She struggled to keep up, but they had not gotten a quarter of the way to the church before she slumped, dragging on him. “I have to rest.”
“You’re gray,” he said, not with sympathy but as an observation. “I’ll carry you.”
“I just need time to rest.” Lady’s Blood! She didn’t want to be seen carried by him, like a shameless whore!
“We’ve no time.” He thrust the book into her hands and caught her around the back and under the legs and swung her up. Even with her weight in his arms, his pace did not slacken. Some other need drove him. She clutched the book against her chest, head swimming, so faint she feared she would drop it.
At the church the wagon did indeed sit outside, heavily laden, covered with a felted wool rug. Three men Liath vaguely recognized as Count Harl’s men-at-arms loitered by the church door, armed and outfitted for a long journey. Dorit stood, wringing her hands, by the cart horses, which Lars held by their harness.
Hugh dumped Liath unceremoniously into the back of the wagon, onto the featherbed. A fourth soldier appeared from the stables, leading the piebald mare and the bay gelding. Only the gelding was saddled. Hugh took the gelding’s reins and mounted.
“Where is that girl?” he demanded. “We can’t wait. If we don’t see her by the inn, Dorit, and she comes here, tell her to follow us down the south road. If she hurries, she’ll catch us before nightfall.”
“But you can’t leave her,” Liath cried, roused out of her stupor. “You promised me!”
“We can’t wait.”
“There she is!” called Dorit. Hanna came running along the road, a leather sack thrown over her back.
Hugh urged his gelding forward. A soldier leaped up into the wagon, and Lars jumped back as the cart horses started forward. The wagon jolted under Liath and began to roll. The three other soldiers, one still leading the mare, fell in behind. They eyed Liath and her single possession—the old leather book—surreptitiously but otherwise kept silent. Their path met Hanna’s, and she swung in beside the wagon.
“You’ll walk,” said Hugh from the front. Then added, as if an afterthought, “but you may rest the sack in with the rest.”
Hanna tossed her sack into the back beside Liath and trudged alongside.
“What happened?” Hanna asked in an undertone. “He looks in a passion.”
“I don’t know. But he gave me the book, Hanna.”
Hanna said nothing, and by that Liath realized the bitter truth. Hugh let her hold the book because he knew he could take it back any time he wanted. Behind them, the church receded. Dorit and Lars stood by the great front doors, watching the party head away back into the village, to the road that led south. They traveled in silence until, reaching sight of the village and the inn, Hugh cursed suddenly.
Liath raised herself up and looked around.
Four riders—an unusual sight on any day—waited in front of the inn. She recognized Marshal Liudolf. The other three wore the scarlet-trimmed cloaks and brass badges embossed with an eagle that marked riders in service to the king: the King’s Eagles. Two were young, one man and one woman. The eldest was a grizzled, weather-beaten man who looked strangely familiar, but she could not place him.
“That’s the traveler who rode through last autumn,” said Hanna in a whisper. “He asked about you, Liath.”
“Keep moving.” Hugh’s order was sharp.
“Frater Hugh!” Marshal Liudolf raised a hand. “If you will, a word.”
Liath could see by the set of Hugh’s back that he wanted to ignore this summons. That he wanted to keep riding. But he reined the bay aside. The soldier driving the wagon pulled the horses up. Mistress Birta emerged from the inn and stopped next to the door, watchful, silent.
“As you see, Marshal,” said Hugh, “we are just setting out. It is a long journey south, ten or twenty days, depending on the rains, and we have little enough daylight for traveling this early in the year.”