All of them, Liath, Lord Geoffrey, Lord Dedi, the men surrounding them, and last of all Lavastine, wiping blood from his eyes, turned. High up on the height of the hill, the banner pole above his pavilion snapped at that moment and fell amid an Eika assault.
Lord Geoffrey leaned forward. “Cousin, the day belongs to Bloodheart. Let us gather our forces and retreat to join with Henry. We can prevent a rout of the men who yet remain on the hill and screen their westward retreat if we move in on the western side.”
“Where is Bloodheart?” demanded Lavastine again, and he looked at Liath.
She pointed to Gent.
“That the day is lost is an illusion,” he said hoarsely. “An illusion cast by Bloodheart, who is an enchanter.” Blood streamed from his head, matting his hair, and one of his hands was streaked with blood trickling from a wound on his arm. “We must have faith.”
“Faith!” Geoffrey cried. “Prudence would have served us better! If only we had waited for the king at Steleshame!”
“For how long? With what provisions? Our supplies run low, and this land is exhausted by war and neglect. Nay, Geoffrey, I took the course that seemed wisest to me then. Now we must take the only course open to us. We must strike from behind or all is lost, including that which is most precious to me.” He glanced again at the hill, where the fighting ran thick and the standard was lost, then deliberately away as if to shut it out of his thoughts. Only by that small gesture could Liath see how much his son meant to him. Lord Geoffrey flinched back as at a rebuke.
“Lord Dedi,” continued Lavastine. His voice had the brisk confidence of a man without a care in the world—and no time to waste. “Take your men and ride ’round to join with Saony. Do not allow the Eika to return to the gates of Gent. Geoffrey, take half the men of Lavas, the standard, and those of Fesse that you can muster and join Lord Dedi. The rest, with me.” His gaze, taut, like a bowstring strung tight, met Liath’s. “Eagle, how long must they keep the Eika at bay for us to take the gates from within?”
She glanced at the sky, judging the height of the sun. “To midday, at least.”
“So be it. Watch for us at the gates. If we do not appear, then save those you can and join with Henry. God be with you.”
The sound of the riders shifting to their new order rushed around her like the flow of the river that night on the Veser.
“Eagle,” said Lavastine. Blood mottled his face and hair. Bruises stood out on the sharp plane of his cheek. Behind, the pound of the drums throbbed over the field while the clash of arms and the wail and shout of men and Eika alike rose like an unholy, intangible wraith off the battleground. The count lifted a hand to ready his troops, those splitting off with him, but he did not take his gaze from Liath. “Lead on, Eagle. To your sight we now entrust our victory.”
3
SOON after midday a message eddied down through the column that was Henry’s army, and in its trail ran an audible buzz of excitement and fear.
“Hai! Hai!” shouted the messenger, none other than Henry’s favored Eagle, Hathui, as she pulled up her mount beside the wagon that held the clerical paraphernalia. She had a strong voice that carried easily over the train of wagons now shuddering to a halt as their drivers slowed oxen and horses and bent to listen. Rosvita’s servingman stopped walking and set a hand to the nose of the mule she rode. The other clerics, mounted on donkeys or walking beside her, also came to a halt.
“Word has come from an outrider that battle has been joined outside Gent. The train is to travel on as far as it can before dusk while the army marches ahead.”
“Eagle!” Rosvita caught her attention before she could ride on. “How far are we from Gent?”
The Eagle’s sharp gaze measured the cleric, and then suddenly the marchland woman grinned grimly. “Too far, I fear. The scout who rode in had taken a horse from her comrade, so that she could switch from one to the other and make better time. Even so, both horses foundered when she reached us. The battle was joined about the hour of Terce, she guesses, and it has taken her since then—with two horses—to reach us.” The Eagle glanced reflexively up at the sky. Rosvita squinted, wincing at the high glare of the sun. Sext had passed, though they had not halted to sing the proper psalms. “Over three hours ago,” she murmured; and the daylight hours in summer were long.
“I wielded a wicked staff when I was a girl!” said Sister Amabilia suddenly. She twirled her walking stick in her hands quite convincingly for a woman who had spent the last ten years as a studious cleric.
