The Burning Stone
Prince Ekkehard was actually able to bend one arm at the elbow so he could rub his nose with the back of a hand. “I think that’s enough for now,” he said.
“I pray you, believe us!” cried Ermanrich, loud enough that a number of people including some of Ekkehard’s other companions jumped. “His blood washed away our sins!”
Sigfrid tugged on Ermanrich’s robes and made a complicated signal of signs and grunts, sweeping rushes aside so he could trace letters into the dirt floor of the longhouse.
“Oh!” said Ermanrich, startled enough that for the first time he looked anxious. “Are you sure—Prince Ekkehard said—” Sigfrid nodded his head emphatically. “Uh, well,” continued Ermanrich, stuttering only a little. He glanced once at Sigfrid, his good-natured face drawn down in a frown, but Sigfrid’s expression was as fixed as adamant stone. “My good Brother Sigfrid says that you who have no faith in the truth of our words will see a miracle at dawn tomorrow, and then you will believe.”
“Truly spoken, Your Highness,” said Ivar with a nasty glance at Baldwin.
Ekkehard regarded Ivar with suspicion, as if he’d used sleight of hand to tempt Baldwin away from his rightful lord, but because he wanted to avoid trouble he agreed. Ten of the young men in Ekkehard’s company accompanied them back to the pyre.
“Is this how I’m thanked?” retorted Baldwin. “With your petty grumpiness? Haven’t I been protecting you all this time? Didn’t I save us from Judith? God help me but I hope you can return the favor, for I can’t take another night like the one I just suffered through! They kept sneaking in through the window, one after the next, raving about angels and revelations.” He shuddered, but not even a grimace could mar his perfect features. Walking this close to him, Ivar smelled oil of jessamine lingering on his skin, A sprig of dried lavender was caught in his brilliant hair, and Ivar plucked it out and crushed it between his fingers. A faint scent burst, then dissipated.
“God protect us,” exclaimed Milo, who was walking at the front. Where the pyre lapped the stream, steam boiled up, and all the ashes and coals were hidden by the churning mist. A scent like flowers distilled to incense permeated the air. A whispery crackling came from the shroud of mist, melding with the babble of water over the stones and the curdling hiss of steam.
“I—I don’t like it here,” said Milo, taking several steps back, but Baldwin marched right up as close as he could stand and plopped down on his knees.
In this way, somewhat anxiously, the second day passed. Sometimes villagers came to look in on them, as if to make sure they weren’t getting up to any mischief, but mostly they were left alone although once or twice Ivar thought he heard giggling at the edge of the distant wood, far enough away that, when he looked back, he only saw pale flashes moving among the trees, dogs or goats, or poor Baldwin’s tormentors.
Baldwin prayed more beautifully than anyone, and he could lead them at prayers as long as Ermanrich prompted him.