The Gathering Storm

“Why did you not mention it to your companions?” Ortulfus went on. “To see a lion in this part of the world would be an unexpected event, would it not? Did you see a lion, Lord Ermanrich? Lady Hathumod? Gerulf? Dedi?”

One by one, reluctantly, they shook their heads.

“Why did you say nothing?” repeated Ortulfus.

“I—I—it seemed like a dream to me. In the morning, I didn’t see any tracks, so I thought perhaps I had dreamed about lions only because of what Baldwin had said.”

“And you, Brother Sigfrid?” Father Ortulfus’ tone was the more damning for being so composed.

“There were lions, my lord abbot, but unless you see them with your own eyes, you cannot understand that they exist.”

“So be it. Suspected on the grounds of heresy and sorcery. Biscop Constance must judge this matter, for I cannot. Prior Ratbold, make ready a party to escort them to Autun for trial.”

3

“I went St. Asella’s once,” Hanna admitted as she ate supper that evening with the other Wendish servants in Hugh’s retinue. “Do you go often?”

“Indeed, we do,” said Margret the seamstress. Normally she had a piece of embroidery or mending on her lap. It was strange to see her clever hands engaged in any other activity, even so commonplace a one as spooning leek and turnip stew into her mouth. “My lord Hugh is most generous, as you know, and gives us one morning a week to attend Vespers at St. Asella’s.”

“You’re not frightened at going down into the lower city so late? The Aostans don’t love the Wendish.”

“They do not love us,” said Vindicadus the scribe, “but they’ll be ruled by us no matter what they wish.” He glanced at Margret.

The seamstress brushed a tendril of graying hair out of her eyes. “We walk down in daylight. That is safe enough. By the time evening song is over, we are all together. We walk back to the palace as a troop. None bother us, even if a few throw curses our way.”

“I wonder if I might come with you. It gladdened my heart to hear a lesson given in Wendish. My ears grow weary of hearing Aostan, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

“No need to ask our pardon, but you must ask the steward.” “Vindicadus” wasn’t the name given him by his mother. He came of low birth from a village in western Avaria but had learned to read and write regardless and been allowed to take the cleric’s tonsure in a frontier monastery in Austra, where his talents (and, it was rumored, his pretty face and pleasing figure) had come to the attention of Margrave Judith. He had evidently flowered young and faded quickly, for although a well enough looking man he had gone to fat, and it wasn’t clear to Hanna by what chain of events he had ended up in Darre. Hugh used him to make copies of any royal cartularies and capitularies which might be of interest to the skopos and to run errands.

The next day the steward said there was no objection to such an expedition as long as Hanna remained with Margret and Vindicadus. The holy presbyter was a generous lord and favored those of his servants who obeyed him and did right by God.

So she found herself the following evening, as the service of Vespers began, sitting toward the back of the nave in St. Asella’s, watching and waiting while Margret and Vindicadus bent their heads in prayer.

“May the Mother and Father of Life have mercy upon us—” Two male clerics led the service this day, but she saw Fortunatus and the three young women standing at the rear of the choir. Was that Aurea, the servant woman, sitting on the third bench? Even with lamps burning along the aisle, it was hard to tell because the drape of her shawl concealed her face.

“In peace let us pray to Our Lord and Lady.”

The soothing words melded with the whispered gossip of the group of women on the back bench, more interested in chatting about their day than about saving their everlasting souls. It was hard to concentrate on prayers. There were so many distractions, thoughts flickering in and out of her mind as she struggled to quiet the tumble of ideas that fell one over the other. She became aware of a mild rumbling in her stomach, the gift of the strongly-flavored leek stew, three days old, she had eaten this afternoon. She covered her mouth to burp as the two clerics paced out the stations marking the blessed Daisan’s life and ministry as he brought the Holy Word to the faithful.

She felt queasy, actually, a little shaky, as though the stew had turned bad. She shut her eyes, but the nausea didn’t go away. The bench rocked back. The ground jerked so hard that she slammed into Margret. She fell forward, banging her knee on the bench in front of her.