Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars #2)

Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars #2) Page 89

“Lord Wichman! I beg you,” Gisela was saying, “if there is not enough fodder for those of your horses which remain …”

But the young lord had a wild light in his eyes. With his helmet off and tucked under one arm, he warmed his free hand over the fire while a man-at-arms wiped the blood from his sword. He had a fine down of beard along his chin, as fair as his pale hair. “Did you see the dragon?” he demanded. “Was it a real thing, or another enchantment?”

Master Helvidius hobbled forward, Helen dragging on his robes. “My lord, if I may speak—”

But the young lord went on, heedless. “Nay, Mistress, I won’t let the Eika drive me away! Are there no old wise-folk here, who can braid a few spells of protection into being? Give us those, Mistress, and we’ll raid as the Eika do, like a pack of dogs harrying their heels!”

“But we’ve lost full half our livestock, or more! And I hear now from those who escaped into the trees that a good half of my laborers were herded away to be slaves!”

“Or eaten by the dogs!” said a sergeant.

Mistress Gisela set down the ax and looked about for support. “Is Mayor Werner not here? He will advise as I do. How can I support my own people and yours as well, Lord Wichman?”

“The mayor is dead, Mistress,” said Wichman. “Or had you not heard that news yet? How can you not support me? I am all that stands between you and another Eika raid. And let that be an end to it!” He handed his helmet to the sergeant, stomped his boots hard to shake dirt off them, and sat on a bench, beckoning to Gisela’s niece to serve him drink.

Anna began to shake. All of a sudden the cold struck her, and she could not stop trembling. Helvidius limped over and threw a bloodied cape, trimmed with fabulous gold braid embroidery, over her shoulders. “Here,” he said. “Him as owned this before won’t be wanting it now.”

She began to cry. Matthias was gone.

In the far corner, the pregnant woman’s grunting breaths, coming in bursts, transmuted into a sudden hiss of relief. The thin wail of a newborn baby pierced the noise and chaos of the hall.

“It’s a boy!” someone shouted, and at once Lord Wichman was applied to for his permission that the woman might name her son Henry in honor of his dead cousin.

Ai, Lady. Matthias was gone.

He did not appear that day or the next among the dead pulled from fallen buildings nor among the living who crept out one by one from their hiding places. Amid such disaster, one boy’s loss made little difference.

VII

BELOW THE MOON

1

BISCOP Antonia had a high regard for her own importance. Granddaughter of Queen Theodora (now deceased) of Karrone, youngest child of Duchess Ermoldia (now deceased) of Aquilegia, daughter of two fathers, Prince Pepin (now deceased) of Karrone who had sired her and Lord Gunther (now deceased) of Brixia who had raised her, most favored cleric of King Arnulf (now deceased), she had been ordained twenty years ago as biscop of Mainni when the previous biscop had suddenly died. Antonia did not like to be kept waiting.

She was being kept waiting now, and in the most unsightly hovel, a small shepherd’s cottage with a bare plank floor, unwashed walls, no carpet, and one narrow bench. On that bench she sat while Heribert stood by the single window and peered out between the cracks in the barred shutters. There was not even a fire in the hearth, and it was bitterly cold. Heribert shivered, thin shoulders shaking under an ermine-lined cloak and two thick wool tunics.

“Come away from the window,” she said.

He hesitated, and she frowned. “It’s growing late,” he said. “Rain has started falling again. It looks as if it’s more ice than rain. If someone means to come, then they must do so soon or we will be left here in this Lady-forsaken place to face nightfall.”

“Heribert!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Nervously, he touched the holy relics hanging in a pouch at his neck and backed away from the shutters.

The roof was, thank the Lord, sound enough. No rain leaked through to drip on the uneven plank floor. A single lantern that hung from a hook by the hearth gave light to the single room. Antonia had not failed to notice that it had burned for hours now with no change in the level of oil. So, she supposed, their mysterious confederate meant to put them on notice that she—or he—had arts of magic at her disposal. Someone not to be trifled with.

As they are trifling with me!

Antonia did not like to be trifled with. Only disobedience in those sworn to obey her annoyed her more. She glanced at Heribert, watched him pace back and forth before the cold hearth, now rubbing his arms. He sneezed and wiped his nose, and she hoped he was not getting sick. This frustration also nagged at her: Some of the magi knew arts by which a sorcerer could bring heat or cold. These were not arts she had mastered or even discovered the secrets of. The irritating thing about hidden words was that they were hidden, and difficult to dig out of whatever cave or ciphered manuscript or reluctant, stubborn mind she found them in.