In the Ruins

A jingle of harness out of the east rang brightly in warning.

“Damn,” said the captain. They had all heard it. “As I feared.”

“What are we to do, Captain?” asked the young man, looking exceedingly nervous but also determined and angry. “If they catch us …”

“Who follows you?” Alain asked.

“Lady Sabella’s soldiers,” said the captain.

“If I can turn them back,” said Alain, “will you take me to Biscop Constance? I ask only to speak with her briefly. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Turn them back!” scoffed the young man.

“Hush, Erkanwulf! We must get the biscop to Lavas Holding. You ride and alert the rest. Form up with all soldiers to the rear and flanks, out into the forest. I’ll stay here.”

“No, Captain. Begging your pardon, Captain. It’s you they need, more than me. I can wait behind and catch up. If I don’t come, it’s because I’m dead.”

The captain considered. He was a thoughtful man, Alain saw, one who was neither too eager nor too cautious; a good commander. His features triggered an old memory, but if he’d seen this man at Gent, and he surely had done so, it was in passing. Many men rode in the war parties of other nobles. A lord might note faces and go on, not marking them because he had no authority over them.

With regret, the captain nodded. “So be it.” He turned his measuring gaze on Alain. “If Erkanwulf brings me news that the ones who follow us turned back, then I’ll see you have an audience with the holy biscop.”

He sheathed his sword, gave a hard look at Erkanwulf, and rode on. He looked back twice before vanishing around a bend in the road.

“Best if I do this alone,” said Alain.

“I’d rather die than betray my captain!”

“If you take the horse down that path, you can tie him up and then watch without being seen.”

“And without hearing! You might tell them anything, the disposition of our forces, our numbers, our destination if they haven’t guessed it already. You might be a spy in league with Lady Sabella.”

“I might be, it’s true, although I’m not.”

Erkanwulf scratched his head. “I’m minded to believe you, although I don’t know why. How will you stop them?”

A second jangle of noise rang closer. The first had been a trick of air and leaf, but this grew steadily in volume.

“Go,” said Alain.

Erkanwulf hesitated only a moment, biting his lip, before he dismounted and lead his horse down the track that cut off toward Ravnholt Manor.

Alain set himself in the middle of the road with a hand on his staff and the other hanging loose at his side. He waited, breathing in the loamy air. The battered roadbed gave beneath his right foot where a trickle of groundwater seeped up to dampen the leather of his boots and creep in through the seams. A fly buzzed around his left ear. A bee wandered into the shadow of a copse of withered honeysuckle grown up along a patch of open ground. He waited, content to let the time pass. He felt the barest glimmer of sun above, like the kiss of a mouth through cloth. If the weather didn’t change, then crops wouldn’t grow or would grow weakly. The thought stuck with him and gave him courage.

In time, the first outriders appeared out of the east as shadows lengthened on the road. It was a good long straight stretch of track, open enough that he soon saw most of the company moving along. He faced about threescore riders. Half were mounted, dressed in surcoats bearing the sigil of the guivre of Arconia. A dozen of the infantry wore a tower sigil that he did not recognize. The others wore any kind of leather coat or tough jacket, men brought quickly into service for a specific task but not serving in the duke’s milites on a permanent basis.

Their captain rode in the third rank behind a double line of anxious-looking younger men bearing small shields and short spears. He was a fearsome-looking man, grim with anger and horribly scarred. He was missing an eye, healed as a mass of white scar tissue, and old gashes scored his forehead and jaw. Now and again a man in the first rank would lift an arm to point out yet another mark of the passage of a significant cavalcade. They knew what they followed. They could not be turned aside through misdirection. They had marked Alain already and now sent scouts on foot into the underbrush, seeking to forestall an ambush. The shing of swords leaving sheaths cut the air. Shields were raised, and spears wavered. Some had bows, and these men set arrow to string and scanned the woodland for movement.

“Tammus!” shouted Alain. “Keeper!”