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“Let us keep our minds on Godly subjects, Brother Fortunatus.” But after uttering this pious sentiment, Sister Rosvita smiled. She was famous at court for her great learning and wise counsel, and for never losing her temper. After two months with the king’s progress, Liath could not help but admire her from afar—especially having heard Ivar sing her praises so often in Heart’s Rest. “I can’t recall his name now, but in truth, he was memorably beautiful, the kind of face one never forgets.”

“High praise from you, Sister Rosvita,” said the one called Amabilia. “Even if you do remember everything.”Advertisement

The stream of platters and pheasants passed. Liath hurried on and made it to the door.

“Thiadbold.” She stopped beside the red-haired Lion. “What of the man this morning, whose cheek was cut so horribly? Will he live?”

“He’ll live, though he won’t be charming any of the women with his handsome face, alas for him.”

“Will he still be able to serve as a Lion? What will happen to him if he can’t?” She knew all too well what it meant to have neither kin nor home.

“A Lion who is unfit to serve because of a wound in battle can expect a handsome reward from the king, a plot of land in the marchcountry or fenland.”

“Aren’t those dangerous and difficult places to farm?”

“In some ways, but you’re free of service to the lordlings who demand tithes and labor. The king only demands service from you to man the marchcountry watchforts. Even a man as scarred as poor Johannes will be can find a wife if he has a plot of land to pass on to their daughters. There’s always a strong woman to be found, a younger sister, perhaps, who’d like to forge out on her own and will overlook an unsightly scar.” He hesitated, then touched her, briefly, on the elbow. “But mind, Eagle, we Lions will remember that you came to his aid.”

Behind them, at the table, the king rose and lifted his cup, commanding silence. “In the morning we march east, toward Wendar,” the king announced. Several of the younger lords cheered, happy at the prospect of marching nearer to those lands where fighting might be expected. “But let us not rejoice in a hall of mourning. Let us remember the lesson of St. Katina.”

Since St. Katina had been tormented by visions of great troubles lying in wait for her village in the same way a beast of the forest lies in wait for an innocent fawn, Liath wondered that King Henry would want to remind his retinue of her story. But this was her feast day, and her visions had proved truthful.

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“‘Do not let fear draw a veil across your sight,’” said Biscop Constance.

“‘Do not forget that which troubles you.’” The king stared past his cup toward a vision only he could see. “It has been sixty-seven days since I learned of the death of—” Here he faltered. Never could he bring himself to say the name out loud. Better that he never do so, thought Liath bitterly, so as not to bring pain blooming fresh out of her own heart. “Since the Dragons fell at Gent.”

Certain of the young lords in the back of the hall called out a toast to the bravery of the fabled Dragons. Some of them, no doubt, had hopes that Henry would name a new captain and form a new troop of Dragons, but he had not once spoken of such a thing in Liath’s hearing. They drank, toasting the dead Dragons, but Henry only sipped at his wine.

Villam changed the subject at once, discussing the road back. They would ride southeast until they linked up with the Hellweg, the Clear Way, that began in easternmost Arconia, then cut through northwestern Fesse and from there into the heartland of Saony.

“It is too late to hope to reach Quedlinhame for Matthiasmass,” the king said, “for the harvest will be over. But we may reach there in time to celebrate the Feast of St. Valentinus with my mother and sister.”

Quedlinhame. Wasn’t that where Ivar had been sent? Liath glanced toward Sister Rosvita, who was smiling at some comment made by Sister Amabilia. Thinking of Ivar made her think of Hanna. Where was Hanna now? How did her journey prosper, she and Wolfhere? Once Hanna had spoken of Darre as if it were a city built from a poet’s song, all breath and no substance. Now Hanna would see it herself.

“Then,” the king was saying, “we will swing south, to hunt.”

“What are we hunting?” asked Villam.

“Troops and supplies,” said King Henry grimly. “If not for this year, then for the next.” The thought of Gent was never far from his mind.

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ANNA had to walk farther into the forest than she ever had before in order to find anything to harvest. The woods nearest to Steleshame had been picked clean by the refugees from Gent. Matthias didn’t like her to go out into the woods alone, especially as the border of the forest itself steadily shrank back as refugees culled what they could in berries and roots, let their livestock graze away the under-growth, and then cut down the trees themselves for shelter and fuel. pqdm.com