“Why do the hounds of Lavas bow before Mother Obligatia?” asked Gerwita. “We all saw it happen.”
Rosvita nodded. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
The room was simply furnished with rope beds, benches, a table, and a chest. The shutters had been taken down from both windows. They had left the door open to help the breeze pass through. Besides their writing implements and the precious books, they traveled with nothing more than a few extra robes and tunics, a pair of combs, brooches and pins for cloaks, blankets, flasks, needles and thread, eating utensils, a maul and muller, a bladder filled with lanolin, a sack of candles, and one iron pot.
They asked for nothing more than this.
She looked at her loyal schola: Fortunatus, who had endured so much and never once complained; the three clever girls; young Jehan, made frail by their journey but hanging on. Sister Amabilia had died long ago, and Brother Constantine had not survived the king’s progress. Aurea had died together with Brother Jerome in that first raid, but there would be others, waiting in Theophanu’s schola or learning their lessons in some novices’ hall, who would join them.
Someone must strike a lamp to flame in the darkness. Someone must care above all things that the truth be illuminated.
“He knows,” said Rosvita.
“Who knows?” asked Gerwita, but the others were already nodding.
“I saw him,” said Heriburg, “as I was coming upstairs. He was in this house, but he left and walked out into the tent camp, among the refugees. Is he a holy man, Sister?”
“He is a mystery, sent by God for us to unravel. He knows the truth. This I must do, as we are commanded by the regnant, whom we serve. Princess Theophanu desires that the rightful heir of the county of Lavas be brought forward. I will see it done. For the sake of King Henry, whom I loved, who loved his bastard son best of all his children, although it was unwise of him to do so.”
“Love is not wise,” said Fortunatus, whose hand rested on her shoulder. “Love is most unwise of all.”
“Yet it sustains us.”
7
THE night wind whispers in the trees. Folk huddle under the scant shelter of canvas stretched between limbs, staked down at corners. Some among the children sleep soundly, curled tight in blankets, but one is sobbing with eyes open.
He knelt beside the women tending her. “Is this your child?”
“Nay, not mine. My sister’s. She saw her mother murdered, my lord. She has these nightmares. You see.” She waved a hand in front of the child’s staring eyes, but the little girl did not react. “She is asleep. I always wake her, but when she falls back to sleep, it’s the same over again.”
He set a hand on the child’s dirty brow. The hair was combed back and tightly braided, greasy because unwashed, but otherwise neat. The shift the child wore was smeared with dirt but several tears in the fabric had been precisely repaired with even stitches.
He closed her eyes gently. After a moment her sobs subsided and she sighed and fell into a calm slumber.
“Can you sleep?” he asked her aunt, who was, he saw now, a young woman made old by what she had seen. No older than his foster cousin, Agnes, yet her cheeks were hollows, and her gaze was bleak.
“It’s hard to sleep,” she admitted.
“You must have a name. What happened?”
“I’m called Leisl. I’ve six nieces and nephews to tend. Both of my sisters were murdered. And my brother-in-law, hit by a falling branch. The other’s husband is gone missing, God help him. I was betrothed to Karl, who lived over by Linde—that’s a half day’s walk from our village. But I haven’t seen him since that day. We’ve good land where we are, but no man to till and tend the fields. These boys are too young. I can’t tend to house and field at the same time. I don’t know what we’ll do this winter.”
She raised her head to stare through the dark night toward the black shadow of the church and its high tower. “They say the phoenix came, that it was a sign from God. But I don’t know, my lord. I was frightened. It got so cold, like a winter storm. Maybe it was the Enemy instead. Three demons walk here, with their masks, in the company of the winged one. The same ones that killed my family. How can I think they are beloved of God?”
“These seeds were sown long ago,” he said, taking her hand, “but it is our fate to be left with the harvest. Let those who remain here be at peace. God’s mercy reaches into many hearts. As for you, Leisl, what needs doing?”
She shrugged, gone beyond sorrow into bitter practicality. “I need a husband. If Karl is dead—and I suppose he must be, since he didn’t come here and I heard that Linde was burned right down, all of it—then I must find another man willing. It’s a decent household, with good land, and two walnut trees and six fruit trees. We had five sheep and four goats, but they’re lost, too. Chickens. Near the river. The house well thatched. Three other families nearby, none of them cousins to us. One family of outlanders up from south of Autun who settled there in my grandmother’s time.”