Crown of Stars (Crown of Stars #7)

“What do you want? You were a slave once. Now you speak on my council. What do you want?”

“My lord,” says the man, trembling now, and it is evident that some strong emotion has overcome him. He will not speak. He cannot.

“Well, then, Otto. When you know, you must tell me. You have earned a reward this day.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man says obediently, but he weeps, as humans do when their emotions overwhelm them. And despite everything, Stronghand still does not truly understand them.

From ahead, he smells the fires of home. A faint hum raises the hair on the back of his neck. His dogs yip.

OldMother is waiting for him.

“She’s at prayer,” said a guardsman to Captain Lukas.

Alain shook himself to a halt just before he slammed into the captain’s broad back. Lukas had stopped at the top of the stairs, below a gate carved with Dariyan rosettes. Beyond lay the remembered courtyard, lined on one side by a stone colonnade and on the other, just to their left, by a stone rampart that opened onto a spectacular view of the town below, although from this angle Alain saw only one corner of the cathedral tower. The graveled courtyard had recently been raked and tidied. Opposite stood the famous octagonal chapel with its proud stone buttresses. He heard hymnal singing and, from farther away and therefore harder to place by direction, male laughter.

“An odd time to be praying,” commented the captain, “unless you’re the queen.”

The guardsman and Lukas were clearly old friends, and indeed the other man wore the badge of a captain as a clasp for his cloak. “True enough.” He chuckled and said, with a smirk, “Praying in thanksgiving, the lady is. The queen gave birth at dawn.”

“Is that so?” asked Captain Lukas, eyes widening as he leaned toward his comrade. “Girl or boy?”

“A lad, wouldn’t you know it? It’ll be proclaimed in three days if the mite survives that long. The other two didn’t.”

“Yes, I recall it, but the older girl seems likely to stick. Still.” He glanced around to make sure none of the other guards could overhear, and leaned closer. “Still. How is the duke taking it?”

“Look there,” said the other guard, pointing back down the stairs. “Here he comes. He went out hunting.”

The stairs wound down the slope, switching back several times, and because they were sheltered under a roof, with no walls, it was difficult to see the procession the guardsman alluded to, but the lively clatter of their progress drifted on the breeze. The hounds had their ears up and were looking that way with interest.

“What are these great beasts?” added the guard, extending a hand toward Sorrow. “Here, boy. Are you the friendly one? You’re a big one, aren’t you?”

Sorrow gave a warning growl, ears flattening, and the guardsman withdrew his hand. “I’ve seen the like of these beasts before, but I can’t recall where. You’d think a man would never forget such monsters!”

“Come on,” said Captain Lukas, beckoning to his men who were, after all, waiting on the stairs in the path of the approaching company. “Move along to the chapel, but keep at the back, and make sure you’re quiet.” He nodded at Alain. “The lady won’t mind it if the hounds rest just inside the door. She often brings her coursers with her, as does the duke. His alaunts and whippets are usually with him. Will they fight with other dogs?”

“Only if they’re attacked.”

The captain took him at his word. It was a rare man who did not know his dogs well enough to understand and predict their behavior, and such dogs would never have sat still for long stretches; they would have been off and sniffing and snuffling into every crook and cranny they could find no matter how furiously their master called them back. Most folk did not have time for ill-trained dogs, and certainly would not go to the trouble to feed them.

A number of soldiers loitered under the colonnade, watching with interest but without initiative.

“There are many soldiers here in Autun,” remarked Alain.

“Truly,” agreed Captain Lukas good-naturedly as they crossed the gravel, footsteps shifting and grinding on the rocks. “More soldiers than commoners, it’s said.”

“How are the soldiers all fed?”

“Taxes. Tithes.” He shrugged. “The lady takes what she needs. It’s to the benefit of all to be protected.”

“What if there’s a poor harvest this year? It seems likely, doesn’t it? So cold as it is still that folk can’t risk planting for fear a late frost will kill the seedlings.”