The Burning Stone
Page 281
The glowing worm had vanished.
Sigfrid began to weep.
“It was a sign,” said Ermanrich portentously. “But was it the Enemy, or God?”
Sigfrid, looking ecstatic more than grief-stricken, flung himself down onto his knees and began to pray again. They could not budge him, and there he prayed for the rest of the day while villagers came and went to exclaim over the remains of the beast, although none dared touch the coals. Indeed, as the day progressed, the coals seemed to glow more hotly. But maybe that was only Ivar’s imagination, his own weak flesh reacting as, emboldened by Wichman’s departure, the village’s young women crept back. Nervous at first, like pigs knowing that one of their kind has been slaughtered, they grew bolder when none of the young men in Ekkehard’s party molested them.
“Perhaps our preaching has finally reached Prince Ekkehard’s heart,” Ivar said to Ermanrich that evening as they feasted on roast chicken flavored with mustard, honey cakes, greens, and a very coarse dark bread that he had to soak in ale to make edible.
“I don’t know,” said Ermanrich, looking doubtful. “It was very sudden.”
Ekkehard’s arms still hurt him too much to move, although otherwise they seemed to be healing well. He allowed Baldwin to feed him, and had further charmed the villagers by drinking out of the wooden cup, engraved with a swan, offered to him by a village elder.
“I pray you, my lord prince,” said Baldwin, smiling prettily, “let me take something out to our companion, Sigfrid, for otherwise I’m afraid he won’t eat.”
“Pray do so,” said Ekkehard, who like everyone admired Sigfrid for his humble devotion to God and the ease with which he shed sincere tears. But then, the noble expression shattered briefly, twisting into something else. “But don’t take him,” he said, waving toward the far end of the table where Ivar and Ermanrich sat. “Take the fat one.”
Ivar flushed. Ermanrich rose, leaning to whisper in his ear. “He’s just jealous of you because Baldwin loves you. Don’t mind it, Ivar.”
But he did mind it. He finished his meal in silence, shunned by the others now that Ermanrich and Baldwin were gone. They all despised him because Prince Ekkehard despised him, and yet hadn’t the blessed Daisan forgiven his enemies? Hadn’t He reminded his followers that we who live in flesh are all weak and subject to temptation? Each person certainly was glad when she acted rightly, and yet the body, born into the tainted world, often did not walk hand in hand with the unstained soul.
It was so hard to be good all the time.
It was so hard that night when he woke up from an uncomfortably vivid dream of Liath, and it took him a moment, panting to ease himself, to realize he’d been jostled by a foot. In the warm late spring night both shutters and door had been left open, and by the light of a nearly full moon he saw the pale shape of a woman dressed only in her undershift ease down onto the bed shared by Ekkehard, Baldwin, and Milo. Milo was a heavy sleeper under any circumstance, and Ekkehard had been dosed with juice of poppy because the pain as he shifted in his sleep made it difficult for him to rest.
But Baldwin was awake.
“My lord prince!” she whispered. “Your Highness—!” She lay a hand on Baldwin’s naked chest.
“I’m not the prince,” he murmured, although he did not attempt to remove her hand. “That is Prince Ekkehard, beside me.”
“But you’re so beautiful, my lord. Like an angel.” She reached inside the neck of her tunic. For an instant Ivar saw the pale expanse of her skin as she drew the cloth aside, and he had to close his eyes, he was so flushed everywhere and still aching from the dream that he thought he might lose himself entirely.
“I got me a feather, my lord” she was whispering. “An angel feather.”
He couldn’t help but look. She hadn’t exposed herself but rather a golden feather whose mellow glow set Baldwin’s handsome features alight and made the girl seem the prettiest he’d ever seen, dark hair, a small nose, a mole on her right cheek that moved as she smiled. “I knew it were a sign. I’ve had so many strange dreams ever since I saw them lights in the old stone circle, before the beast come. I dreamed that I’d be visited by an angel. So did Rodlinda and Gisela and Agnes, and she’s even been married since last autumn. Isn’t that you, my lord? Aren’t you the angel? Didn’t God send you to come in unto us and give us a revelation?”
Ivar had remained chaste since the day of his revelation, but God surely knew it hadn’t been easy.
Sigfrid began to weep.
“It was a sign,” said Ermanrich portentously. “But was it the Enemy, or God?”
Sigfrid, looking ecstatic more than grief-stricken, flung himself down onto his knees and began to pray again. They could not budge him, and there he prayed for the rest of the day while villagers came and went to exclaim over the remains of the beast, although none dared touch the coals. Indeed, as the day progressed, the coals seemed to glow more hotly. But maybe that was only Ivar’s imagination, his own weak flesh reacting as, emboldened by Wichman’s departure, the village’s young women crept back. Nervous at first, like pigs knowing that one of their kind has been slaughtered, they grew bolder when none of the young men in Ekkehard’s party molested them.
“Perhaps our preaching has finally reached Prince Ekkehard’s heart,” Ivar said to Ermanrich that evening as they feasted on roast chicken flavored with mustard, honey cakes, greens, and a very coarse dark bread that he had to soak in ale to make edible.
“I don’t know,” said Ermanrich, looking doubtful. “It was very sudden.”
Ekkehard’s arms still hurt him too much to move, although otherwise they seemed to be healing well. He allowed Baldwin to feed him, and had further charmed the villagers by drinking out of the wooden cup, engraved with a swan, offered to him by a village elder.
“I pray you, my lord prince,” said Baldwin, smiling prettily, “let me take something out to our companion, Sigfrid, for otherwise I’m afraid he won’t eat.”
“Pray do so,” said Ekkehard, who like everyone admired Sigfrid for his humble devotion to God and the ease with which he shed sincere tears. But then, the noble expression shattered briefly, twisting into something else. “But don’t take him,” he said, waving toward the far end of the table where Ivar and Ermanrich sat. “Take the fat one.”
Ivar flushed. Ermanrich rose, leaning to whisper in his ear. “He’s just jealous of you because Baldwin loves you. Don’t mind it, Ivar.”
But he did mind it. He finished his meal in silence, shunned by the others now that Ermanrich and Baldwin were gone. They all despised him because Prince Ekkehard despised him, and yet hadn’t the blessed Daisan forgiven his enemies? Hadn’t He reminded his followers that we who live in flesh are all weak and subject to temptation? Each person certainly was glad when she acted rightly, and yet the body, born into the tainted world, often did not walk hand in hand with the unstained soul.
It was so hard to be good all the time.
It was so hard that night when he woke up from an uncomfortably vivid dream of Liath, and it took him a moment, panting to ease himself, to realize he’d been jostled by a foot. In the warm late spring night both shutters and door had been left open, and by the light of a nearly full moon he saw the pale shape of a woman dressed only in her undershift ease down onto the bed shared by Ekkehard, Baldwin, and Milo. Milo was a heavy sleeper under any circumstance, and Ekkehard had been dosed with juice of poppy because the pain as he shifted in his sleep made it difficult for him to rest.
But Baldwin was awake.
“My lord prince!” she whispered. “Your Highness—!” She lay a hand on Baldwin’s naked chest.
“I’m not the prince,” he murmured, although he did not attempt to remove her hand. “That is Prince Ekkehard, beside me.”
“But you’re so beautiful, my lord. Like an angel.” She reached inside the neck of her tunic. For an instant Ivar saw the pale expanse of her skin as she drew the cloth aside, and he had to close his eyes, he was so flushed everywhere and still aching from the dream that he thought he might lose himself entirely.
“I got me a feather, my lord” she was whispering. “An angel feather.”
He couldn’t help but look. She hadn’t exposed herself but rather a golden feather whose mellow glow set Baldwin’s handsome features alight and made the girl seem the prettiest he’d ever seen, dark hair, a small nose, a mole on her right cheek that moved as she smiled. “I knew it were a sign. I’ve had so many strange dreams ever since I saw them lights in the old stone circle, before the beast come. I dreamed that I’d be visited by an angel. So did Rodlinda and Gisela and Agnes, and she’s even been married since last autumn. Isn’t that you, my lord? Aren’t you the angel? Didn’t God send you to come in unto us and give us a revelation?”
Ivar had remained chaste since the day of his revelation, but God surely knew it hadn’t been easy.
