In the Ruins

Erkanwulf dismounted and tied his horse to a post before running down the path and into the arms of a fair-haired girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age. He grabbed her, spun her around, and kissed her on the cheek. Hand in hand they walked swiftly back to the stone house. His mother came out of the shed with her hands empty and a grim look in her eyes.

“Who is this?” cried the girl, breaking free of Erkanwulf’s grip and walking boldly right up to Ivar’s horse. She had no fear of the animal. She rummaged in the pocket tied to her dress and pulled out a wizened apple, which was delicately accepted by the beast.

“Too high for the likes of you,” said Erkanwulf with a snort. “Unless you’re wanting a noble bastard to bring to your wedding bed.”

“You!” said the girl with a roll of her eyes. She grinned at Ivar. She was plump, healthy, very attractive, and well aware of her charms.

“And a monk besides,” Erkanwulf added.

“As if that ever stopped a man!” She laughed. She had lovely blue eyes, deep enough to drown in, as the poets would say, and she fixed that gaze on Ivar so hard that he blushed.

“Hush, you, Daughter,” said Erkanwulf’s mother. “Don’t embarrass me before this holy man. I beg your pardon, Your Excellency.”

“No offense taken,” Ivar said awkwardly.

The mother swung her gaze from the one to the other. It was difficult to say who blanched more, the sister or the brother. “What are you doing here, Erkanwulf? There came the lady’s riders looking for you last autumn. We had a good deal of trouble because of your disobedience. Best you have a good reason for bringing her wrath down on us.”

“What trouble?” He looked around the circle of villagers gathered and saw that their mood was sour, not welcoming.

When she did not answer, he said, “We can trust this man. I swear to you on my father’s grave.”

She held up a hand and folded down one digit for each offense. “Steward was taken back to Autun with both her son and daughter, as hostage for our good behavior. Bruno and Fritho were whipped for protesting. Your brother and four cousins took to the woods and hide there still, like common bandits, because the lady’s riders said they’d hold them as hostage against your return. Goodwife Margaret’s two grandsons were led off God know where, although they said they meant to make them grooms in the lady’s stables.” The crone bobbed her head vigorously. “How is Margaret to plow her fields now? You best make a good accounting for yourself, Son, for as bad as all that is,” and now she folded in her thumb, and shook a fist at him, “we lost also our entire store of salted venison meant to husband us through to spring. They took it as tax, a fine levied against your desertion. New year is coming. Our stores grow thin. Much of what remains is rotting. What with this cold weather, too much rain all winter, and no sun for these many weeks, I fear more trouble to come. What do you say?”

“He came at my order,” said Ivar, “and in the service of Biscop Constance.”

Folk murmured. Some drew the circle at their breast while others made the sign to avert the evil eye.

“She’s dead, may God have mercy on her,” said Erkanwulf’s mother.

“She’s not dead but living in a monastery they call Queen’s Grave.”

“That’s what they said. That she was interred in Queen’s Grave.”

“It’s a place, not a graveyard,” he said patiently, seeing that the villagers had lost a bit of the suspicion that closed their features. “It’s a convent. She’s alive. Lady Sabella deposed her, although she had no legal right to do so since Biscop Constance was given her place as both biscop and duke by the regnant himself.”

“King Henry is Wendish,” said one of the men who had greeted them so suspiciously by the byre. “As is the biscop. At least Lady Sabella is daughter of the old Varren royal family on her mother’s side.”

“She’s a heretic,” said Erkanwulf’s mother. “Our deacon was taken away because she wouldn’t profess.”

“Was she? Has the truth come so far as out here to this place?” demanded Ivar.

“He’s a heretic, too,” observed Erkanwulf dryly, indicating Ivar.

“Hush, you,” said his mother before turning her attention back to Ivar. “It’s true enough, Your Excellency. The lady came riding by on her progress one fine day last spring.”

“It was summer,” interrupted Erkanwulf’s sister. “I recall it because the borage was blooming and it was the same color as his eyes.”