That evening he packed such things as he thought he would need: a spare tunic; a pair of soft boots that Aunt Bel absolutely insisted he take along; rope braided by Bruno; a pouch of silver sceattas out of Medemelacha; a collection of small tools from the workshop rolled up in a leather belt that Artald felt were indispensable to a man wanting to make his way in the world; a strong staff carved by Julien; gloves Stancy had sewn out of calf leather; a heavy wool cloak woven by Agnes; and a bowl, cup, and spoon carved by Henri, each one with a hound’s head incised into the concave base.
The household had their own taxes to gather and make ready to deliver to the chatelaine, but Bel made sure they ate well and drank well that night.
He slept easily, although others fretted at his leaving. The pallet he slept on in the hall was not the one he had grown up sleeping on, back in the village. The estate, however fine it was, had no hold on him because these surroundings were only a way station. He had left Osna village years ago. That leave-taking could not take place a second time.
In the morning, a dozen accompanied him to Osna: Henri, Bel, Stancy, Artald, Agnes, Julien with his Varingian spear, five of the workers armed with staves and shovels, and little Blanche because she refused to remain behind. Bruno was left at the workshop with the rest of the household, just in case, in these difficult times, some cunning soul had planned a ruse in order to loot or burn the estate while it was undefended. Aunt Bel was famous for her careful and farsighted ways, and many would suspect that her storehouses remained well stocked, as indeed they did.
“We ought to put up a palisade,” said Artald as he swung along beside Stancy. He steadied her at the elbow as she picked her way over a series of ruts worn into the path. “I’ve been speaking of it for three years now. Past time we started.”
“Have a care,” called Julien from the front. They came up behind a score of ragged folk who, seeing them, shrank back into the trees. A child wailed and was hushed. All of the children had sunken eyes and swollen bellies. The adults, all women except two toothless old men, drew the little ones back and ducked their heads.
“I pray you, good folk,” said one of the women, creeping forward on her knees. “A scrap of bread, if you have it. Pray God.” One of her eyes was crusted shut with dried pus.
Behind her, others coughed, or scratched sores and pustules. One woman had a scaly rash splattered down the right side of her face and ringing her neck like a strangling cord.
Alain stepped forward, still holding Blanche’s hand.
“They’re dirty!” she cried. “I hate them!”
He pulled two loaves of bread from the pouch on his back and gave one to the child. “Here.”
“That’s your waybread, Alain!” objected Aunt Bel. “You’ll go hungry!”
“Pray do not worry on my account, Aunt.” He turned back to Blanche. “This is your offering to make, and you must make it.”
“Can’t! I’m scared!” she whined. “I hate them.”
“Blanche,” he said kindly, looking her in the face.
Weeping, she shuffled forward, shoved the bread into the hands of the creeping woman, then bolted back to the safety of the hounds, pulling on their ears until Rage nipped gently at her to get her to let go.
“Do not fight among yourselves,” said Alain as the other refugees converged on the woman, who clutched the loaf to her chest. He marked among them a girl no more than Agnes’ age whose cheeks were so hollow that you could trace the skull beneath stretched skin. He gave her the other loaf. “Listen! Let all be satisfied that you have each dealt fairly with the others. Otherwise you will never know peace.”
All were silent as they walked on, leaving the beggars behind. At last, as the woodlands were cut with the fields and clearings that signaled the advent of village lands, Agnes spoke.
“How could you understand them, Alain?”
“They were Salians,” said Henri. “I know enough of that language to trade in Medemelacha.” He glanced at the girl, who paled when he said the name, and reached out to squeeze her hand. “There, there, lass. He may yet be alive. That report I heard might have been wrong.”
“It would be easier if I knew,” she murmured as she wiped her eyes.
“True enough,” agreed Henri. “Poor child.”
“God must hate them, too,” said Blanche. “Otherwise why would they be sick? Only bad people suffer. If they did a bad thing, they’ll be punished.”
“That being so,” snapped Agnes, “why are you not covered with weeping sores and white scales? Why hasn’t your nose fallen off?” Her face got red, and she began to cry.