“Parchment, ink and quill, Lady Sabella’s ducal seal, and a person who can write in the manner of her schola. We’ll need a letter to the guard at Queen’s Grave, an order to release Biscop Constance and her retinue.”
“I can get those things by midnight,” said Baldwin.
“Even the seal?”
“Even the seal. I can write whatever you want.”
“I saw that—I saw—Baldwin, how did you learn to write so well? Can you read now, too?” He grimaced, hearing how he sounded, but Baldwin neither smiled nor frowned.
“She doesn’t like it when I pray and act the cleric,” he said softly. “It reminds her of her daughter, so it gives her a disgust of me. That’s why I prayed so much, and practiced my letters so hard. Once I learned, I found I was good at it. Everyone says I have a beautiful hand for letters. They all praise me. I know every word in every capitulary and cartulary that comes out of her schola. I have the seal of Arconia, Ivar. I am the seal. That’s what she calls me. See?”
From the folds of his robe he pulled a small object tied to his belt. Ivar fondled it, feeling the ridges and depressions of a tiny carving impressed into stone. He hadn’t enough light to read its features, but it felt like the sigil of a prince by which that prince set her approval and authority onto every letter and document that left her schola.
“I’ll come as soon as all have gone to their beds. She won’t want me tonight because she’s in her blood. Meet me at the river gate. We’ll need horses.”
“That’s taken care of, Baldwin. But if you can slip away so easily, why haven’t you done so before?”
“Why would I? What have I to live for, if I am alone? Here, I had some hope of finding a way to free the others. I saw them.” His voice trembled at the edge of tears. “I saw them in Queen’s Grave, but we were never allowed to speak. I must go.”
He released Ivar’s hand, gave him a last, searching look, took the lamp, and hurried back inside. The door shut.
Ivar simply stood there, dumbfounded. His thoughts were all tumbled. He gasped in a breath that was also a cry.
“Hoo!” Johanna came up beside him so quietly that Ivar hissed in surprise. “That one! Some say he’s a saint.”
“A saint?” He was flushed, and trembling, and, truth to tell, a little irritated. Since when did Baldwin tell him what to do with so much cool assurance?
“He’s so even tempered, despite the way she treats him.”
“Does she abuse him?”
“She’s got a bad temper. She despises those she has no respect for, and treats them worse. She hates herself for loving his beauty so much. Duke Conrad’s the better prince. All know that. But Lord Baldwin slips food to the starving and a kind word to the weary, behind her back. No natural person can be so beautiful. That’s why he must be favored by God. Now, come. We’ve one more chamber, and then I’m to take you back to the barracks.”
He pulled his cap back over his hair and followed her. His thoughts rolled all over each other in a confusing jumble that he just could not sort out. Nor had he managed it when at last Johanna delivered him to Captain Ulric and he gave his report to the captain and his companions.
“Very well,” said Ulric, who like most experienced military men knew how to act quickly. “Erkanwulf, you’ll ride south with the cleric after he has delivered the seal and the order.”
“Won’t he ride to Queen’s Grave with me?” asked Ivar.
“She’ll be after him. He’ll have to lead her on a chase while we rescue Biscop Constance. If they escape, they’ll meet up with us later. If that meets with your approval, my lord.”
When they had escaped the Quman, the others had looked to Ivar to lead them, but here it was different: he could only follow as the captain told him what they were going to do and only afterward asked permission as a courtesy, given the difference in their ranks.
Yet there was hope. He agreed to everything Captain Ulric said. Quietly and in shadows, the war band left their barracks by ones and twos. Slowly, the stables were emptied out. Ivar walked with Erkanwulf through deserted streets with a taper to light their way, leading four horses whose hooves clopped hollowly on the pavement of stone.
They waited for hours and hours at the river gate although, in truth, it wasn’t longer than it would take to sing the morning mass. The gurgle of the river serenaded them. The wind brought the smell of refuse. It was otherwise silent and dark. He could barely distinguish the walls of Autun behind him where he stood huddling at their base on the broad strand between gate and river’s edge. A score of boats had been drawn up onto the shore. The wharves were farther downstream, by the northern gate. A rat scuttled into the wavering, smoky light given off by the taper, froze, and vanished when Erkanwulf threw a knife at it. The blade stuck in the ground, and he leaned down to pull it free.
