“She killed Lackling,” Alain managed at last. “She killed him, and she a holy biscop!” This betrayal was perhaps the worst of all. Only imagine what Brother Gilles, that good gentle soul, would have said had he witnessed such a thing! “And now Lavastine says we will march to war when there’s work in the fields to be done, and he even speaks of fighting against his own beloved cousin! It isn’t natural!”
Agius sighed. “Come, Alain. Kneel beside me. There is much for you to learn about the ways of the world. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to turn your back on the intrigues of the world, as I have sought to turn mine. What the biscop did—” He grimaced as he shifted weight onto his injured leg. Alain crossed hesitantly and knelt beside him. “Be sure that I will report it, if I can. But I may not be believed. She is a holy biscop, ordained by the hand of the skopos herself. Although my word is worth a great deal, there were yet only you and I who witnessed the act. If you were acknowledged, Alain, as Lavastine’s bastard, your word would be worth more.”
But at this moment, seeing the pale face and remembering the flat voice of Lavastine as he had announced his allegiance to Sabella in the hall, Alain was not sure he wished to be acknowledged as that man’s kinsman. Especially if it would bring further notice upon him.
“But nevertheless, Alain, there are many reasons why noble lords and ladies change their allegiances. Many reasons, and few of them good ones. With such games do the great princes while away their days, for they do not turn their hearts and eyes to the Hearth of Our Lady as they ought. They are beguiled by the world and its pleasures. We cannot know that sorcery is the cause of the count’s decision.
“But I know it is!” Alain burst out. “I know!”
Agius raised an eyebrow. He looked skeptical. “By what means do you know? Are you an adept? Have you received training in the forbidden arts?”
Alain resisted the urge to bring the rose out, to show its bloom, to make Agius smell its fragrance. It was not the season for roses, certainly, but the count had a small garden protected from the winds, open to the sun and often warmed by braziers; roses there bloomed early and late. What if Agius, not believing his tale of the visitation of the Lady of Battles, accused him of stealing it?
Or, worse, what if Agius believed him? What if Agius decided that Alain’s destiny was something that he, Agius, must manage?
“No,” Alain said finally, humbly, bowing his head. “I know nothing of sorcery except the stories any child hears and the tales told by our deacon.”
Agius made a gesture of dismissal, turning the conversation away from this discussion of sorcery. “You must wait and see, Alain. But in any case, these matters no longer touch me. I will remain here at Lavas Holding to continue my preaching.”
“You’re not coming with us?” At once, guiltily, he recalled Sorrow’s bite; had he managed the hounds better, Agius would not be injured.
But Agius made no mention of the wound. “I am a frater, bound by my oath to serve Our Lady. Though I have stopped at this holding for a while, I do not serve the count, not as you do. As you must.”
Sorrow, sitting patiently by the door, whined. Alain was reminded of his duties: Master Rodlin would be waiting for him. He rose.
“But, Brother Agius, what if Count Lavastine orders you to follow in his train?”
Agius smiled thinly. “Lavastine cannot order me, Alain. Nor will he try.”
Nor, to Alain’s surprise, did he try. They marched out on St. Isidora’s Day soon after dawn, twenty mounted soldiers and eighty on foot with a train of twenty wagons. Frater Agius did not march with them. Chatelaine Dhuoda also remained behind to tend to Lavas stronghold.
Alain could not be sure whether he was sick at heart or terribly excited. Everything he knew he now left behind. Though he had not seen Osna town for over a year, still, it did not seem in his heart too far away; it was four days’ journey in good weather and was part of familiar lands. Now, familiar lands vanished behind him, setting west. They crossed the Vennu River and marched east through unknown fields and strange hills.
He swung back and forth between these two emotions, dread and excitement, all that first day. But by the third day the intermittent drizzle and the slogging pace of the march dampened his spirits and left him with a persistent cough and a constantly dripping nose. His boots were caked in mud, and by the end of each day his feet and hands were chilled through.
Only during the day, if the sun came out while they were marching, did he feel comfortable. He and the hounds slept under a wagon at night, just outside the tent that was always pitched for the count. This way, at least, he stayed dry. Many of the other men-at-arms weren’t so lucky, and they grumbled.