2
KING Henry and his court were out hunting when she rode into the broad enclosure that formed the northernmost of the royal hunting lodges in the Thurin Forest. It had taken her seven days to ride here, pushing her pace and changing horses at Quedlinhame. This time, at the monastery, she had been restricted to the stables; she’d had no chance to contact Ivar again. On the road, she’d seen no trace of the mysterious creature who had passed so close by her before.
Great hall and barracks, kitchens, smithy, storerooms, stables, and a few guest houses made up the hunting lodge. A large grassy field surrounded these buildings, bounded by a steep-bedded, narrow river on one side and the palisade wall on the others. Servants scurried here and there about the lodge. Liath heard the squeal of pigs being driven to slaughter for the night’s feast. A veritable army of servants swarmed around the cookhouse—set well away from the great hall in case of fire—and farther, down a grassy slope to the river, servants aired linen and featherbeds and washed clothes.
Once she crossed under the palisade gate, a groom took her horse and informed her that the king was gone for the day. Liath was glad to miss the hunt. She could take no pleasure in hunting some poor, terrified creature—it reminded her too much of her own life.
She settled her saddle and harness in the same empty stall where she found Hathui’s familiar gear, saddlebags and rolled-up wool blanket. Hathui had gone out with the king. She crouched to open the bag, set her hand on the book within—and hesitated. Had the daimone appeared—tracked her down—because she had opened the book out on the road? Or because she had, in her thoughts, recalled Da’s death? Or had it only been coincidence that the creature had appeared then? She closed the flap and tied the pouch shut, shoved the saddlebag under her saddle, then went outside.
It was a fine blustery autumn day with clouds aplenty and the scent of cooking fires heavy on the wind. Brittle leaves of faded yellow and orange rolled across Liath’s boots, blown by the wind. Goats grazed on the verge of the forest on the other side of the river, attended by a solitary shepherd. No one marked her. They were all too busy.
The morning’s sun which had shone on her earlier had now vanished, shrouded by the wings of a coming storm. This was the season of storms, blown in one after the next. She shivered, thinking of the Eika, themselves a storm blown in from the north; it was still painful to remember the fall of Gent.
Yet the world beyond seemed far away, here deep in the heart of the forest. No one lived here, no freeholders or peasants working a noble lady’s estate or church lands farmed the steep hills and densely wooded valleys. The Thurin remained a forest wilderness, and here the king hunted most autumns.
The cool bluster of the day drove her to seek shelter in the great hall. But to her surprise and dismay, clerics tenanted the great hall, half a dozen garbed in neat robes. She had thought they, too, would be out hunting.
Instead, they sat quietly at the long tables where, in the evenings, the king and his court feasted. They went about the king’s business while the king went about his pleasure. Goose quills bobbed evenly, dabbed in ink, letters curving across parchment or vellum.
Liath took a step back, but it was too late. At the chair nearest the door sat Ivar’s sister, Rosvita. She looked up, caught sight of Liath, and beckoned to her. A bound book, parchment pages folded into a quire, some of them not yet cut, lay open on the table before her. Her fingers were stained with ink.
Cautiously, Liath ventured closer.
“You are back, Eagle,” said the cleric.
“I am, Sister. I bring a message from Duchess Rotrudis for the king.”
“You left Quedlinhame swiftly,” observed Rosvita, “and must not have tarried there long on your way back.”
Ai, Lady! In all that had happened since, Liath had scarcely thought about poor Ivar. What was it Da had always said? “When the wolf has your arm in its jaws, then use the other to tickle its belly.”
“What are you writing?” Liath asked, but the words written in fresh ink caught her in their spell and she read out loud:
“Then Henry, born to Kunigunde, Duchess of Saony, and her husband, Arnulf of Avaria, became duke by reason of his mother’s death and his elder sisters having died before him. But Queen Conradina, who had often tested the valor of the new duke, was afraid to entrust to him all his mother’s power. By this attitude the queen incurred the indignation of the entire Wendish army. She then spoke many words in praise of the new and most noble duke, promising to bestow on Henry great responsibilities and to glorify him with honor. But the Wendish soldiers were not deceived. The queen, seeing that they were more unfriendly than usual, and realizing that she could not destroy the new duke openly, tried to find a way to have him slain by treachery.