“A fox among the chickens!” the furious prior roared. “The only way to stop him is to make sure he can’t speak!”
The mild-mannered abbot of Dibenvanger Cloister dissuaded Ratbold from any violent acts and sent them on their way the next morning, but not before coming himself at dawn to counsel the wayward prisoners.
“Do not despair, friends,” he said quietly. “You are not alone.”
These mysterious words lifted Ivar’s spirits as the days wore on.
Yet when at last they descended into the Rhowne Valley, a fit of melancholy swept over him. The painful anticipation wore him out. How would Biscop Constance rule at their trial? Would she be lenient or severe? Would they face excommunication? Even death? It seemed impossible to hold onto resolve through bad times as well as good.
The Rhowne Valley was rich country, well populated with prosperous holdings and verdant estates. Even blanketed by snow the roads and fields had a tidy look to them, well traveled and well tended. Biscop Constance shepherded a thriving flock.
A bell hung under a thatched awning by the ferry crossing. Prior Ratbold rang the bell. The rest of them dismounted and led the horses around to keep them warm while, on the other side, the ferryman emerged from his cottage, surveyed their distant party, went back into his house, and came out a while later to haul the ferry across by a cable strung over the broad river.
It took three crossings to get them all across. While he waited, Ivar brooded.
Gerulf and Dedi went over with the first load. The two Lions had developed a friendly banter with the monks who were their guards; three of the monks had been in the Lions before they’d retired from war and the world and dedicated their lives to the church. Despite their misgivings about the heretical charges set on Gerulf’s and Dedi’s heads, they still respected former comrades. It was its own form of kinship, based not on family ties but on shared service to the king. They’d fought, seen comrades fall, suffered and marched and remained faithful.
Prior Ratbold, a younger son of a noble house, had no such reason to treat his charges kindly. His family had no connection to any of theirs, and their families weren’t important enough to matter to him. To Ratbold, they were sinful heretics, nothing else.
Maybe Ivar’s sister Rosvita could have helped him, had she wished to, but she wasn’t here. And his father had long since contrived to get rid of him. The old familiar desolation washed over him as he clutched the railing of the ferry in the last group to go across. Brownish-green waters swirled beyond his boots. A big branch thudded against the side of the ferry, rocking them and disturbing the horses, before the river’s grip carried it on.
Everyone had deserted him. His father had never cared for him, not really, and he’d been an infant when his mother had died. To his brothers and sisters, he was a nuisance, the red-haired baby who got in their way. Hanna had ridden away to become an Eagle. Liath had tempted him and then abandoned him for the embrace of a prince. Yet his life had been good before Hugh had come to Heart’s Rest. He had a memory of how much he had once hated Hugh, a feeling like holding a burning blade in your hand. Hate had felt good once. Now his hate streamed away with the river’s water, flowing downriver to the sea.
If he threw himself in the river, no one would miss him. Not even Hugh would care. Hugh probably didn’t even remember his name.
The river tugged at the ferry as it tugged at his heart. He saw figures in the water, water nymphs calling to him and stretching out their arms as they beckoned and wept. Come to us, they said as their bodies undulated through choppy wavelets. Come to us. A cold grave, but a peaceful one. He tightened his grip on the railing and leaned far over, giddy with despair. The water looked so comforting. So final.
“Are you crazy?” Baldwin grabbed Ivar’s shoulder, jerking him back. “You might fall over and drown, and then what would I do? You’re not even paying attention to what I was saying! Can you see it, there? That’s the tower of the biscop’s palace of Autun.”
Ivar’s eyes were too blurred with tears to see. Ermanrich appeared on his other side, setting a steadying hand on his elbow. “Yes, I see it, Baldwin,” he said, without letting go of Ivar.
“Don’t you see, Ivar?” demanded Baldwin impatiently. The river wind streamed through his pale hair; color blushed his fair cheeks. If the water nymphs were mourning and wailing, it was probably because they’d just realized they’d never get their hands on any creature as handsome as Baldwin. “The biscop’s banner isn’t flying over the palace. She’s not there! And if she’s not there, she can’t hold a trial!”