“We must ride the fastest route,” said Baldwin. “Don’t you think that’s what Biscop Constance would want us to do?”
Ivar studied Father Ortulfus, who was still examining the scapula. “Have you horses at Hersford, Father? Ours are spent, although rest will improve them. If we could give you ours in exchange for fresh mounts, we could make better time.”
“Some horse met a sorry fate in the stewpot,” said Ortulfus, tossing the charred scapula back into a fire pit. Its impact sent up a sputter of ash and soot. “We have donkeys, oxen, a pair of mules, but no riding mounts. I’m sorry.”
“Have you a smith, then? It would help them to be reshod.”
“That we do. Brother Adso came to us from Alba two years ago, fleeing the Eika invasion. He has a touch of the old magic in him when it comes to farriery.”
A child coughed wetly. An old woman crooned to a restless baby. A trio of girls ventured as close to the three men as, they dared, staring longingly at the handsome cleric, who seemed oblivious to their presence. The brothers came back with buckets three quarters full and began ladling out water to the parched company.
Baldwin leaned against Ivar and bent his mouth to his friend’s ear. “I’ll just go to the horses now. They’re staring at me.”
Without looking back, he crossed the road and walked over to the stream to supervise the lads, who seemed to know what they were about and needed no actual supervision.
It came without warning, except perhaps for a catching of breath within the woodland, as though all creeping and crawling ceased among the creatures who lived and died there. Of birds, he heard no sound. Nothing, and then the slap of feet, pat put pat put, someone loping in an easy rhythm.
Both of the dogs, lying on the ground, came to their feet and barked, as startled as everyone else.
It burst out of the forest and jolted to a halt, surveying their ragged company from a safe distance. It had a round shield painted with yellow-and-red dragons twined and twisting each around the others. It had ice-white hair pulled back in a ruthless braid, no strand left free, and its skin gleamed as though molten gold had coated its figure. It wore no tunic or jerkin, only a painted cloth tied around its hips. It held a spear in its right hand, and this weapon thumped once, twice, thrice, four times onto the ground, like the abbreviated knock of a woodpecker.
Then it turned and ran back the way it had come.
The villagers erupted, leaping up, shouting, crying, some running into the forest and others pressing children toward the grassy path that led through the trees to the monastery, still a half day’s walk away according to the abbot.
“God have mercy,” said Father Ortulfus, staring after the vanished creature. He was pale and, in truth, he was angry. “After all this, can we not be spared? These poor suffering innocents?” He turned on Ivar. “They have followed you!”
Ivar choked. His gaze was caught by Baldwin at the stream, turning to look at them because he was puzzled at the commotion. From across the road and a little upstream, Baldwin had not seen the Eika scout but only the turmoil that spun out from its appearance. He lifted a hand to query Ivar.
“Forgive me,” said Ortulfus, grasping Ivar’s wrist. “I spoke in anger. This calamity is not your doing.”
“I pray you, Father, there is nothing to forgive. Do what you must. We’ll hide in the forest and hope they do not see us. I would offer to draw them off, but we must reach Lady Sabella and Duke Conrad before they do.”
Ortulfus sketched a strange pattern at his chest. “In the name of the Mother and Son,” he murmured, “be blessed as you go on your way.”
Ivar stared at him, hearing the phrase, but shook himself. “Truth rises with the phoenix,” he responded.
Ortulfus nodded sharply. “So we have ourselves seen,” he said cryptically. He strode after his flock, scooped up a bawling child who was reaching after something left on the ground, and shouted at his monks to scatter with their charges through the forest. “Each one of you take some into your keeping and go by diverse routes toward home. Hurry!”
They fled. Ivar ran to the stream and sent the two confused lads on their way after the others.
“What do we do?” asked Baldwin.
“Hide, and fall behind.” They splashed across the stream and led the horses into the woods. “I don’t know how big a force is coming. We can’t outrun them. If it’s a scouting expedition, we can travel along whichever road they do not take.”
Baldwin scratched at his beard again. “I hate this hair. I wish we had time to shave.”