The Gathering Storm

Anger writhed in his gut at the thought of Hugh until finally he staggered over to the bucket placed in the corner and vomited the remains of his dinner. When he sagged back onto the hard bed, he felt a little better. He must not let despair and hatred control him. He could not let the memory of Liath torment him. He had to figure out how to get his companions out of this prison, and he could not do so if he let jealousy and fear and hate consume him. He had always acted so impulsively before. Unbidden, the memory of his elder half sister, Rosvita, came to his mind. She would never have found herself in such an awkward circumstance. She would never be so stupid as to be thrown into a prison cell for some rash action or thoughtless words. How many times as a child had he heard her held up as a paragon of shrewdness and composure? He had to try to be like her. He had to set aside his passions and think.

How could three years have passed in the space of two nights?

In the morning, the prior came with a party of men and took away Gerulf as well as Baldwin, whose indignant complaining could be heard through the heavy door. Later, a servant brought venison, bread, and leftover pudding, but Ivar couldn’t bear to touch anything but the bread. Wine didn’t quench his thirst, but a diet of bread and wine eased the ache in his bowels.

The day passed with excruciating slowness. The afternoon service of Nones had come and gone when, at last, all seven of them were brought under guard to the abbot’s office. Ivar needed only one look at the expression on Baldwin’s and Gerulf’s faces.

“Nothing, my lord abbot,” said the prior. “We entered each of the mounds and found a passageway in to a central chamber. Villam’s men did the same thing five years ago when the lad first disappeared. The chambers lie empty. We saw no tunnels or stairs leading farther into the ground, nor did we find any trace of Lord Berthold or his companions.”

The abbot regarded Ivar as he toyed with an ornament: a deer carved from ivory, so cunningly wrought that each least detail, ears, flared eyes, nostrils, the tufts of hair on its legs, had been suggested by the artisan’s skill. A servant came in with a covered bucket to add charcoal to the brazier.

“Truly, it puzzles me that Lord Ivar and his companions should make such a claim when they must have known how easily it would be disproved. They do not strike me as fools—well, perhaps with one exception. Still, this matter goes beyond my jurisdiction. Only the biscop’s court can judge cases of heresy, and whether these tales are true. A phoenix rising from the ashes, healing the lame and the ill. Three years passing in the space of two nights. A two months’ journey overland accomplished by walking into and out of a barrow, through a labyrinth of chambers buried far beneath the old grave mounds.”

“Sorcery!” exclaimed the prior. “Like those stories we’ve heard of bandits who eat the souls of their captives.”

“Hush!” scolded Ortulfus. “Speak no ill gossip lest you bring the sickness back on yourself. Lord Ivar, at Hugh of Austra’s trial you yourself admitted to consorting with a woman condemned and outlawed for the crime of sorcery. How am I to judge? I must send all of you to Autun.”

“I don’t want to go back to Autun!” cried Baldwin. “And you didn’t tell them about the lions!”

“Ai, God,” said Gerulf impatiently, forgetting his station as a humble Lion, “his ravings won’t help our case any.”

“Nay, hold,” said the prior suddenly. “What lions?”

“The lions on that rock outcropping,” said Baldwin irritably. “The one by that tiny old shelter.”

Father Ortulfus set down the deer. His expression grew pensive, even troubled. The sacrist whispered furtively to the chief scribe, and the cellarer rubbed his hands together nervously while the prior plucked at his keys.

They knew something. Here lay the opportunity.

“I saw the lions, too,” Ivar said at once. “They came at night while I was on watch with Sigfrid. They drove off a pack of wolves and kept watch over us where we sheltered under an overhang near by the hovel.”

The abbot wavered.

They had struck on the one thing that might convince him. “You never said you saw the lions!” exclaimed Baldwin indignantly. “You let everyone think I was a maniac!”

That quickly, Father Ortulfus’ support slipped away. Picking up the deer, he surveyed his prisoners with a sigh of derision. “Convenient that you recall just now to mention that you saw lions, Lord Ivar.”

“But I did see them,” Ivar insisted, hearing his voice grow shrill. It was so hard to stay calm when disaster stared them in the face. God have mercy! Mother Scholastica had cut out Sigfrid’s tongue for speaking heresy. What would Biscop Constance do to them?