Prince of Dogs
Page 42
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Just as he passed the ranks of the novices, his eye caught Ivar’s gaze. One royal eyebrow arched, intrigued or censorious. Ivar blushed and dropped his gaze.
He saw booted feet march by, heard the renewed voices of many men lifted in song: The King’s Lions had been granted the honor of marching directly behind the king. They halted suddenly and their song cut off, to be replaced by the stillness of a fine autumn day, the creak of leather, the restlessness of horses farther down the line, the barking of a dog.
Ermanrich shifted next to Ivar and whispered to Baldwin. “If only I were closer.”
Startled, Ivar glanced up at the same time as did Sigfrid. Their view was partly blocked by the ranks of Lions, sturdy men clothed in fighting gear and gold tabards marked by a black lion, but beyond the milites—the fighting men—and the nobles, the king had ridden forward with only the Eagle in attendance to greet Mother Scholastica.
She was also mounted, as befit a woman of royal birth come to greet her brother; she rode on a mule whose coat was so polished a gray as to be almost white. In her dark blue robes, adorned only with the gold Circle of Unity hanging at her chest, with her hair drawn back under a white scarf and her face guileless and calm, she appeared every bit as regal as her elder brother. Of course it was not fitting that a woman of her ecclesiastic rank dismount to greet anyone except the skopos, but neither could the king dismount to greet her. So the king had ridden forward on his mare to meet her, and now, with the two animals side by side, the royal siblings leaned across the gap and gave each other the kiss of family, once to each cheek, as greeting.
“And if,” continued Ermanrich in that whisper, “you took Master Pursed-Lips’ willow switch—”
Baldwin started to snicker.
“—and gave a quick twitch of it to the mare’s hindquarters, what do you think would happen?”
Sigfrid snorted and clapped a hand over his mouth. Ivar was so aghast at Ermanrich’s imagining either Mother Scholastica or the king made ridiculous by a bolting horse that he started to giggle.
That same willow switch lashed hard against his rump and he yelped. Then Ermanrich gulped down a yelp as he, too, was disciplined.
“Keep silence,” hissed the schoolmaster, stationing himself behind the four boys. He did not, of course, switch either Baldwin or Sigfrid, and poor Sigfrid looked horrifically guilty, for had he not responded by laughing at Ermanrich’s jest? Ivar bit his lip as he blinked back tears; his buttocks stung. Ermanrich had his usual sly grin on his face. He had unknowable reserves and rarely showed any visible sign of feeling pain. The schoolmaster cleared his throat and Ivar hastily looked down just as the king and his sister parted, her mule being brought around by a servant so abbess and king could lead the procession up to the monastery together.
On past Ivar’s station marched the Lions, then the rest of the train, a stamp of feet and hooves and rumble of wagons. Beyond, toward town, people shouted and cried out praise to the king.
Ivar’s rump still smarted. He could practically feel the schoolmaster’s breath on his neck, but the schoolmaster had moved on. A sudden feeling like the whisper of elfshot made his neck prickle. He glanced up, or he would have missed her.
“Liath!” He almost fell forward. The three other boys jerked their heads up and stared. Baldwin whistled under his breath.
Liath! He could never mistake her for someone else: dark hair, golden-brown skin, her height and slender frame. She wore the cape and badge of a King’s Eagle. She wore the badge of a King’s Eagle! Somehow she had gotten free of Hugh.
Envy pierced him, as ugly an emotion as he had ever felt. Who had helped her? He did not want to share that victory, share her gratitude, with anyone. Had she freed herself? Surely not. Hugh would never let her go. Perhaps Hugh was dead; yet not even that thought satisfied Ivar. He, Ivar, son of Harl and Herlinda, must be the one to kill Hugh—or, preferably, to humiliate him.
As wagons rumbled by, he could only stare at her receding back, at the braid that hung in a thick line to her waist. She looked closely at the ranks of hooded monks, their heads bowed modestly so none might see their faces. She knew he was here, didn’t she? Surely she remembered he had been sent to Quedlinhame, only because he had tried to help her.
As he watched her ride away, he almost wept, yet was so filled with joy that he thought he must shine with it. Now, as she passed the last line of layservants, she stopped looking. She stared straight ahead instead, gaze fixed on some unseeable point, perhaps on the church towers whose gilded roofs glinted in the noonday sun. She was lost to him as the king’s progress rode into Quedlinhame and the train—wagons, produce, servants, spare horses, tents, furnishings, the entire ponderous cavalcade that attended the king—trundled past, kicking dust up into his teeth.
He saw booted feet march by, heard the renewed voices of many men lifted in song: The King’s Lions had been granted the honor of marching directly behind the king. They halted suddenly and their song cut off, to be replaced by the stillness of a fine autumn day, the creak of leather, the restlessness of horses farther down the line, the barking of a dog.
Ermanrich shifted next to Ivar and whispered to Baldwin. “If only I were closer.”
Startled, Ivar glanced up at the same time as did Sigfrid. Their view was partly blocked by the ranks of Lions, sturdy men clothed in fighting gear and gold tabards marked by a black lion, but beyond the milites—the fighting men—and the nobles, the king had ridden forward with only the Eagle in attendance to greet Mother Scholastica.
She was also mounted, as befit a woman of royal birth come to greet her brother; she rode on a mule whose coat was so polished a gray as to be almost white. In her dark blue robes, adorned only with the gold Circle of Unity hanging at her chest, with her hair drawn back under a white scarf and her face guileless and calm, she appeared every bit as regal as her elder brother. Of course it was not fitting that a woman of her ecclesiastic rank dismount to greet anyone except the skopos, but neither could the king dismount to greet her. So the king had ridden forward on his mare to meet her, and now, with the two animals side by side, the royal siblings leaned across the gap and gave each other the kiss of family, once to each cheek, as greeting.
“And if,” continued Ermanrich in that whisper, “you took Master Pursed-Lips’ willow switch—”
Baldwin started to snicker.
“—and gave a quick twitch of it to the mare’s hindquarters, what do you think would happen?”
Sigfrid snorted and clapped a hand over his mouth. Ivar was so aghast at Ermanrich’s imagining either Mother Scholastica or the king made ridiculous by a bolting horse that he started to giggle.
That same willow switch lashed hard against his rump and he yelped. Then Ermanrich gulped down a yelp as he, too, was disciplined.
“Keep silence,” hissed the schoolmaster, stationing himself behind the four boys. He did not, of course, switch either Baldwin or Sigfrid, and poor Sigfrid looked horrifically guilty, for had he not responded by laughing at Ermanrich’s jest? Ivar bit his lip as he blinked back tears; his buttocks stung. Ermanrich had his usual sly grin on his face. He had unknowable reserves and rarely showed any visible sign of feeling pain. The schoolmaster cleared his throat and Ivar hastily looked down just as the king and his sister parted, her mule being brought around by a servant so abbess and king could lead the procession up to the monastery together.
On past Ivar’s station marched the Lions, then the rest of the train, a stamp of feet and hooves and rumble of wagons. Beyond, toward town, people shouted and cried out praise to the king.
Ivar’s rump still smarted. He could practically feel the schoolmaster’s breath on his neck, but the schoolmaster had moved on. A sudden feeling like the whisper of elfshot made his neck prickle. He glanced up, or he would have missed her.
“Liath!” He almost fell forward. The three other boys jerked their heads up and stared. Baldwin whistled under his breath.
Liath! He could never mistake her for someone else: dark hair, golden-brown skin, her height and slender frame. She wore the cape and badge of a King’s Eagle. She wore the badge of a King’s Eagle! Somehow she had gotten free of Hugh.
Envy pierced him, as ugly an emotion as he had ever felt. Who had helped her? He did not want to share that victory, share her gratitude, with anyone. Had she freed herself? Surely not. Hugh would never let her go. Perhaps Hugh was dead; yet not even that thought satisfied Ivar. He, Ivar, son of Harl and Herlinda, must be the one to kill Hugh—or, preferably, to humiliate him.
As wagons rumbled by, he could only stare at her receding back, at the braid that hung in a thick line to her waist. She looked closely at the ranks of hooded monks, their heads bowed modestly so none might see their faces. She knew he was here, didn’t she? Surely she remembered he had been sent to Quedlinhame, only because he had tried to help her.
As he watched her ride away, he almost wept, yet was so filled with joy that he thought he must shine with it. Now, as she passed the last line of layservants, she stopped looking. She stared straight ahead instead, gaze fixed on some unseeable point, perhaps on the church towers whose gilded roofs glinted in the noonday sun. She was lost to him as the king’s progress rode into Quedlinhame and the train—wagons, produce, servants, spare horses, tents, furnishings, the entire ponderous cavalcade that attended the king—trundled past, kicking dust up into his teeth.
