The Gathering Storm

Page 163

He bowed his head in shame. “The last, Your Grace. It is nothing to boast about.”
“Bona, bring wine and something to eat.”
Bona flounced out but returned quickly with a tray. Half a dozen others arrived just as they had finishing telling the biscop their names and lineages. Constance chuckled to see her nuns crowd into the room.
“You see, my friends, you are a nine days’ wonder. We live very quietly here at St. Asella’s.”
“I thought this place was called Queen’s Grave,” said Ivar.
“So it is. It was founded by the saintly queen Gertruda. She lived centuries ago. Her story is told in the chronicles of those times, that written by St. Gregoria of Tur. She was married against her wishes to a cruel king who was no proper Daisanite. In fact, he was a pagan or a heretic, as it suited him and his political needs of the moment. When he died, poisoned by a former wife, I think, Gertruda fled to this valley and founded the convent in honor of St. Asella.”
“Who walled herself up alive,” said Sigfrid, nodding to show he understood the lesson.
Constance smiled. “You have studied well, Brother Sigfrid. We need another scholar in our ranks, for my schola has grown thin this past year.” The pain never left her; that was clear enough. But she possessed a quiet determination that would not let pain or defeat break her. She had retained a sense of humor, a subdued appreciation of irony. “Queen Gertruda took vows as a nun to escape the marriage her grasping relatives wished to force her into. In her cunning she created a refuge for other women, and a very few men, who also sought to escape forced marriage and instead devote themselves to God.”
“It’s too bad Baldwin didn’t know about this place,” muttered Ermanrich.
Ivar frowned. Shame flared and turned to anger. “He did!”
“Ah!” said Constance. “There’s a story there. Well, then. You have an audience, for we hear nothing and see nothing. That is the fate of those interred in Queen’s Grave—to be buried alive. We would like to find out what goes on in the world outside. Tell us your tale, I pray you.”
3
IN early spring, Alain stood knee-deep in muddy water, wielding a shovel. He and a dozen of his lay brothers drained a strip of marshland, extending the land and channeling away the standing water. The slap of watery earth tossed onto the margin made a soothing rhythm as the men alongside him sang.
“Out into the four corners of the world
walked the blessed ones.
Sing again their stories.”
The tales of the early saints made a good chorus for working, because the verses could be added to as long as the lay brothers could recall saints to sing about. The afternoon passed quickly.
Rage and Sorrow waited farther up the slope as Alain bent, thrust the edge of his shovel into the muck, and cast mud and dripping tangles of vegetation onto the growing shoreline. The hounds usually dozed all afternoon while he worked, but now Rage, growling softly, rose to her feet and shifted her attention away from him, scenting the wind. Brother Iso was bundling reeds to hold the margin; he lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the sun as he squinted westward. It was unusually mild for this time of year, warm enough that they only needed to wear their cloaks at night.
“Caught one!” shouted Brother Lallo, displaying a wriggling eel.
The other men cheered, laughing as the eel slipped out of Lallo’s wet grasp and vanished with a plop into waters muddied by their digging.
“S-s-smoke,” said Iso, pointing.
A thread spun heavenward southwest above the span of skeletal forest whose branches had not yet leafed out in green.
“Is it the monastery?” asked one of the brothers, frightened. “Is there a fire?”
“Too far.” Lallo measured the thread of smoke, the trees, and the sky. “It must be from one of the steadings.”
“D-d-do you think i-it’s bandits?” stammered Iso, because he had heard tales of bandits and foul magics all winter and often cried at night before sleeping, fearful of what his dreams and the dark hours might bring.
Sorrow rose, too, and like Rage stared steadily westward. He barked once.
Two brothers emerged from the trees and hurried around the verge of cultivated land, avoiding sinks where the mire of winter hadn’t yet been chased away by sun and heat. This past winter there had been little snow but too much rain. Fields of winter spelt and rye wrested years ago from the marshlands surrounding the monastic estate had to be dug out again to save the crops.
“Brothers! Ah! There is Brother Alain! Father Ortulfus is asking for you, Brother. Pray come with me.”