Crown of Stars (Page 155)

The scout continued. “They are a half day—if not less—from Kassel. If they camp at dusk on the road, then they’ll reach here by midday tomorrow.”

“What numbers?” asked Conrad.

“I could gain no good estimate, my lord. I had no opportunity to get around their flank. The woodland road restricted my view. But a good number.”

“‘A good number’ can signify a score, or two thousand,” said Sabella with a sneer. “Can you give no better idea than that?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I sent other men into the woods to spy out their numbers, but none of them have returned. Lady Theophanu will have her own scouts.”

“An unknown number bide inside Kassel,” said Conrad. “Our army caught between. Do we break the siege and retreat?”

“No,” said Sabella, “we make our stand. We have good defenses. The north is impassable. The eastern hills are steep, and we control the ramp and, thus, the Hellweg. The south and west are ours. Our position is stronger than his.”

He nodded. “It’s true, especially now that we’ve received word from Mother Scholastica that she will put no impediment in our path.”

“Should we defeat Sanglant,” returned Sabella scornfully. “My aunt risks nothing.”

“Perhaps not.” He laughed. “The well-being of the souls of every person living in Wendar and Varre must be her first concern. In this manner, the displeasure of the church aids our cause.”

“Why does that amuse you, Conrad?”

“Because my blessed mother began her life as an infidel.”

“And departed it as a God-fearing woman of unimpeachable reputation.”

“Well,” he said tightly, “let’s not speak of my mother. Our position is strong, and despite everything I must suppose we may even outnumber him.”

“Think you so?”

“If Sanglant does not trust Mother Scholastica, and I doubt he does, he will have left behind a contingent to support his claim where rivals may hope to discredit him at her court.”

“Think you so?” asked Sabella.

“I am sure of it. She is a strategist, just as I am. She’ll have made sure to let him know she can’t be trusted. In any case, he can’t have ridden so far and so quickly with a large army. And if he has marched all the way north from Aosta, and with soldiers who spent three years in the south with Henry, he’ll have lost many of his veterans—not just those who died, but those milites who demand to return home at once to care for their farms and estates.”

“Then it seems our victory is assured.”

“Perhaps not. Here, in Kassel, we will be forced to protect ourselves against a double siege. Because once this new force arrives, they will strike us behind while the others attack from the front. Despite superior numbers, we’ll be hard-pressed to hold them off.”

“Now you seem to be arguing that we cannot win.”

“Not at all. Sanglant cannot hold forever. Once the nobles see him impotent in the face of opposition, their support will waver. They want no bastard to rule them. He’ll have to give up.”

“Yes, that will work,” agreed Sabella. “Sanglant cannot defeat us once church and nobles both come over to our side.”

“That’s right. In the end, he will lose.” Conrad nodded, then looked at Ivar. “What did you mean, that the road west is no longer safe? Do you mean Lord Wichman’s men, out harrying us in the north? We skirmished with them today, the bastards.”

Wolfhere said nothing. Lord Berthold glanced at each of his attendants; no other words passed between them. It was a conspiracy of silence, an unspoken agreement to support Sanglant over the Varren usurpers.

Ivar thought abruptly of Hanna. She would follow King Henry’s wishes, wouldn’t she?

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s how we were caught, falling into the flanks of the melee.”

“Three-score men will not harm us. I’m more worried about Sanglant’s reserve coming out of the east in unknown numbers. Here, now. Captain! Take these men away and place them under guard. Give them drink and food. Keep them safe.”

Their guards escorted them past men busy hauling dirt and sawing wood and raising a hasty palisade along the encampment. Not one said a word more until they were prodded into an old byre standing in a farmstead now abandoned and in disrepair. They kicked aside the remains of filthy straw to find the good honest dirt beneath and, tucked away in one corner, a desiccated nest that was the last resting place of a family of dead mice, seven of them exactly, like their own sorry company. Bread, cheese, and ale were brought to the gate. Guardsmen paced outside, talking in low voices about what was known and what was only rumored. A man sang a hymn, joined by a second voice. It was getting dark, the light melting into the long summer twilight.