The Gathering Storm

Page 273

“Surely you have led a blameless life!”
“When I was a young girl I was allowed to kiss the hand of the sainted Queen Radegundis. It may be that a trifling measure of her holiness blessed me with a long life and few troubles. But I have sown my share of ills in the world, as do we all. Now, then. How goes it with Her Grace?”
“She says to tell you, It is time.”
“Ah.” She went to the door and called to her assistant. “Sister Frotharia, fetch me the satchel hanging from the hook behind my chair.”
Coughs and groans greeted her words as patients sought her attention, and she gestured to Ivar to stay put and hobbled back into the long hall where the sick lay on pallets. After a while, Sister Frotharia came out onto the porch and, without a word, handed Ivar a satchel, then went back inside.
Ivar glanced up and down the porch, but of course he was alone. No one ventured out in such rain. The ground was slicked to mud, and even on the gravel pathways rivulets and puddles made walking perilous. Their guards rarely ventured within the limits of the palisade that ringed their holy community.
The satchel weighed heavily on his arm as he hurried out into the rain. The infirmary abutted the main compound. The guards posted at the door to the biscop’s suite stepped aside without speaking; they had served almost three months and glowered at him with the suspicion of men who have heard nothing but poisonous gossip. The guard was rotated through every three months; to this schedule Lady Sabella adhered with iron discipline. The usurper feared, Ivar supposed, that lengthy contact with Biscop Constance might corrupt the guards.
As it would.
Biscop Constance had certainly corrupted him. She possessed every quality that set apart those noble in spirit as well as blood: tall and handsome, prudent and humble, diligent and pious, farsighted and discreet, eloquent, patient, amiable, and stern.
“Ah,” the good biscop said, looking up as he entered. She sat as usual at her writing desk with two assistants beside her in case she needed anything.
Never in his wildest imaginings had he expected to become the familiar attendant and counselor to a noblewoman of such high station, one who wore the gold torque signifying her royal kinship at her neck.
“Are you sure this is wise, Your Grace?” he asked.
“I am sure it is not. If I cannot go myself, then I do not wish to put one of my faithful retainers into such danger.”
“It must be done,” said the young woman seated at the biscop’s feet. She had riotous black curls that the nun’s scarf over her head could not constrain. Sister Bona had been a foundling, discovered at the gates of the biscop’s palace in Autun some sixteen years before. Now she was one of the prettiest girls Ivar had ever seen, and her houndlike loyalty to the biscop gave her a warrior’s bold resolve. “It must be done now! The rain will cover my tracks. The guards hide in their shelters. I can find refuge with certain farming families and loyal monasteries that are known to me through my travels with you, Your Grace. If I can reach Kassel, Duchess Liutgard’s steward will give me aid and send me with an escort to Princess Theophanu. Even if I can get as far as Hersford Monastery, I will be safe with Father Ortulfus. You know it must be done!”
“I could go,” said Ivar, but Bona fixed him with such a glower that he laughed nervously and took a step back.
“You are one of only seven men who abide in this prison,” said Constance. “You would be easily missed.” Pain never left her. She shut her eyes, frowning, but with a deep sigh opened them again. “Go, then, Bona. Make haste. Avoid the roads at all costs. Go with God.”
They embraced, then parted. Constance did not rise as Ivar gave the satchel to Bona, who slung it over her shoulder and hurried out into the courtyard, Ivar at her heels.
“I know the countryside better than you do!” she said, not looking back at him.
“It will be dangerous!”
“So it will.” She glanced over her shoulder, and her grin challenged and vexed him. No girl brought up in the convent ought to be so provocative, but no placid creature would have dared what Bona meant now to attempt. Sigfrid and Ermanrich had no difficulty adjusting to a celibate life as the only young men confined to this convent—there were also four elderly lay brothers who labored about the grounds—but Ivar felt the sting of itchings and cravings every day. He could never scratch.
At least it wasn’t Liath he dreamed of every single night, but the procession of women who progressed through his dreams only made it worse, all of them succubi wearing familiar faces: Liath, sometimes, but Hanna, too, and Bona (too often), and that girl from Gent, and a dozen others glimpsed and forgotten until they returned to haunt him. He never dreamed of Baldwin, but that betrayal only plagued him in his waking hours when he wondered how much his friend suffered and whether he smiled or wept in Sabella’s tender care.