"And given the circumstances, would they like it any better if she permitted Karagern to remain, given what he has done? Would not that omen be equally ill?" asked Saint-Germanius reasonably.

"No, they wouldn't like it. Not unless he were punished for it. She'd have to have him flogged and branded before they'd be satisfied," said Amalric as he slapped his hands on his thighs he brushed the palms together. He sighed once, short and hard. "Well, it would have come to this, I fear, if not now, then before too long. Since the Gerefa's brother went to the White Christ, there have been those who resent her, and they balk at her orders. They say it is an ill omen to be led by a woman."

"Was it Karagern who said this?" asked Saint-Germanius, taking care to make the question unprovocative.

"I have heard him speak of it," answered Amalric. "But so has Brother Erchboge. Many of the men here are troubled by what has become of us, with Ranegonda serving for her brother. If we were not so far from . . . from the King, there are those who would ask for another Gerefa."

"So if it was not Karagern who broke first, it would have been one of the others?" suggested Saint-Germanius.

"Of four or five, yes," said Amalric, lowering his eyes. "The others are sworn to this fortress, and will defend it against whatever comes against it, be it soldiers or Danes or pirates or demons."

Saint-Germanius's smile was more in his dark eyes than on his mouth. "Do you number yourself with them?"

"Certainly," answered Amalric, continuing with pride, "My grandfather served here when the fortress was first built: he and my father lie under the stones of the courtyard, and so will I, one day, next to my woman." He suddenly gestured to the tub of charcoal in one angle of the room. "You use that for fuel. Make sure the flame is always at least a handsbreadth high. The alarm bell is there"—he indicated another part of the chamber where a large metallic tube hung from a heavy beam—"and you strike it with the mallet there beside it. It probably won't be necessary, but you ought to know."

"I agree," said Saint-Germanius.

"Lift the parchment and look toward the sea frequently," Amalric continued, demonstrating how to do this without endangering the fire. "On a night Hke this you won't be able to discern much even if there are ships on the ocean. The rain makes it impossible to see any distance, and what you do make out could be anything from ships to islands to anything at all."

Saint-Germanius's night vision was better than most others', and the rain less of an impediment, but he said only, "I will look regularly, as you've shown me." He noticed Amalric conceal a yawn, and went on, "Unless there are other things I should know, why not leave me to it? I think there is still bread in the kitchens."

Amalric nodded vigorously as if the movement would restore him. "Yes. I want my fried pork and bread before I take my rest." He started across the room, then stopped and gave Saint-Germanius a careful scrutiny. At last he said, "I don't know what you are, foreigner, but I begin to hope you are not the bad omen we all thought you were when we found you."

"For the sake of your Gerefa, I trust that others share your opinion of me," said Saint-Germanius, caution under his amiable manner.

"There are some who are inclined to consider you an ally of sorts," said Amalric. "The rest, well, in time they may be persuaded. I think you show wisdom and courtesy to dine alone, and you have behaved well to the Gerefa. Many foreigners are not so respectful. The men notice such things." He nodded once to Saint-Germanius and then left him alone in the light room.

Beyond the parchment windows the rain continued, growing in intensity as the hours lengthened into night. Shortly after darkness enveloped the Baltic coast most of Leosan Fortress was secured and silent. Only the few sentries walking the parapet and the lingering scent of roast pork from the kitchens revealed the presence of the fortress tenants—the sentries, the smell, and the light burning high in the seaward tower.

Text of identical letters from Hrothiger in Rome to merchants' factors Bientuet in the Market of the Fur-Sellers at Quentovic in Francia, and Huon in the Street of the Foreign Traders at Ghent on the border of Brabant. Carried by the courier of the King of Burgundy and delivered March 14 and March 29, 938.

Worthy factors, my greeting to you at this holy time of year and my thanks for your diligence.

Now winter is quite upon us and the roads impassable, but as soon as the passes are clear, this will come to you with all speed, and I ask that you do not delay in dispatching your answer.

I wish once again to discover any news you may have received concerning my master, Franzin Ragoczy, Comites Saint-Germanius, whose ships the Midnight Sun and the Golden Eye have been missing since early October. His others, the Harvest Moon, the Savior, and the West Wind are at Hedaby where they are being refitted and repaired. The Harvest Moon may not be salvageable, I have been informed but three days ago.

I need not remind you of the rich cargo my master carried, for you were provided copies of his inventory when I first wrote to you in October, when it was not yet known that the ships were missing. You were then authorized to begin preparing his markets in your cities, and therefore I ask that you be ready to receive the portion of the cargo which is now being held at Hedaby. I am going to arrange its release before the end of April and should have it in your hands before summer.

Any information you may come by regarding the current location of the Comites Saint-Germanius would be welcome and worth a handsome consideration paid in gold. I am not interested in sailors' rumors, for I can hear those at Ostia. I want to know what has become of the ships and my master so that I can do what I am bound to do, and see that his interests are correctly served.

If there is any demand of ransom set by pirates or by those with the mandate of their rulers, inform me of it at once. I will pay for the fastest courier you can find, and any expenses incurred in bringing the news directly to me at this villa, Villa Ragoczy, which is on the east side of the old city walls. With frequent changes of horses and clear roads, word from you should reach me in no more than forty days.

I will expect a full accounting of your dealings with the cargo as you dispose of it. Your share shall continue at the same rate it has in the past: twelve percent of the price paid for the goods. We are agreed the amount is generous and the cargoes of the first quality and that our dealings in the past have been equitable and to our mutual benefits. Therefore I am

certain that you will be able to realize a fine profit for yourselves and for the Comites.

My messengers and their armed escort will visit you at the beginning of August to collect the monies you will have waiting, and will bring them here to me to be waiting for the Comites upon his return. Any failure to comply with this instruction will be heard in the courts, for in withholding money due my master at this time is not only theft but treachery, for we must assume the Comites is in danger, and that he may be in urgent need of these funds.

Written by my own hand and signed on December 29, 937, at Villa Ragoczy of the Comites Saint-Germanius in Rome.

Hrothiger bondsman to Franz in Ragoczy

To celebrate the Mass of the Nativity, Brother Erchboge had ordered all the plank tables and benches moved back to the walls of the Common Hall and the fires banked the better to mortify the flesh. Then he summoned everyone but the sentries, the slaves, the light-keeper, and the foreigner to worship there at the dawning of the third day after the Winter Solstice. At his insistence the inhabitants of the fortress had fasted the day before—only the very young and the ill were excepted— and now they were cold as well as hungry as they knelt through the long ritual.

It had begun not long after dawn, with chanting and the recitation of prayers to the White Christ giving thanks for His birth. Then Brother Erchboge had launched into telling the story of how it happened that the Savior was born in a stable and why the shepherds came to do Him honor before anyone else. He spoke of the companies of angels that filled the sky and carried a tailed star to show the way to the stall where the White Christ lay. He described how the shepherds left their flocks in the field, and upbraided those doubters who said that no one grazes sheep in the field in the middle of winter.

"It is wrong to think that these shepherds were unaware of the risks to their flocks, for surely the wolves raven in Judea as they raven here. But the angels remained to protect the sheep and drive off' the wolves

and bears that would otherwise prey on them." He nodded twice, very decisively. "We are taught that angels protect the things of those who believe in the White Christ."

At the culmination of the Mass, each of them was given a small loaf of bread and the entire contents of a chaUce of wme, for all Christians were to partake of the Body and Blood of the White Christ twice in the year: at the Nativity and the Paschal Masses. The wine was part of the bounty provided by Pentacoste's father for the use of the servants of the White Christ, and it was thought to be the rarest luxury by those who lived at Leosan Fortress.

"Drink. Eat," intoned Brother Erchboge as he filled the Chalice with wine again, and held it out to Ranegonda's lips; as the Gerefa she was entitled to be the first to take this, but as she was also a woman, she was relegated to the position of the first of the women, just ahead of her brother's wife.

"Praise and thanks to God," murmured Ranegonda as she Signed herself when the Chalice was empty and the Blood of the White Christ started to sing within her. She took the small loaf in her numb hand and wondered how she would get to her feet without staggering; her head rang and her vision was wreathed in wavery brightness. It is the wine, she thought distantly as she used her good left leg to try to rise.

Beside her Pentacoste was smiling, and although she never glanced in Ranegonda's direction, there was enough mockery in her eyes to shame the Gerefa. As she allowed Brother Erchboge to tip the wine down her throat, she managed to dampen the corner of her veil with the wine. "Praise and thanks to God," she said as the monk handed her the loaf.

The shuttered windows made the Common Hall dark as a cave, and the hanging oil lamps dispelled little of the oppressive closeness. A shght ruddy glow still showed on the hearth, but for the most part the Mass was carried on in an artificial dusk that bore in on all of them.

The men, who had taken the Supper of the White Christ first, were also feeling the impact of the wine. Ewarht had righted one of the benches and was sitting on it, smiling and looking slightly sick at the same time. He had already taken a bite out of the loaf and was chewing with determination. Not far from him Walderih teetered as he walked toward the door, one arm held out for balance. Rupoerht. standing near the massive hearth where the last vestiges of heat could be found, was consuming his loaf, wolfing it down as if it were good meat and not simple bread. Faxon was sitting, back to the wall of the Common Hall, his knees drawn up and his face blank, his small loaf held untasted in one limp hand. Ulfrid had reached the door and was standing in it,

contemplating the raddled snow in the MarshaHng Court, paying little heed when Aedelar wandered up beside him.

The monitor for the fortress watched the door to be certain that no one left before the monk dismissed them, for that would dishonor the fortress and the White Christ at once. Although he was getting old, he was still a force to reckon with, and no man who had received the White Christ wanted Duart to speak against him to Ranegonda, or to complain of his conduct to Brother Erchboge. For this occasion the monitor had removed the owl's claw from the thong around his neck and had in its place a little silver fish.

"Is Brother Erchboge going to celebrate the Mass for the villagers?" asked Genovefe in an undervoice as she approached Ranegonda. "Or is it only for us?"

"Later," said Ranegonda. There was a shattering brightness around her, she thought, that had nothing to do with the dim oil lamps; she decided that it was the power of the White Christ, or the wine, for she had not tasted the dark red wine enough to be certain which.

"Today?" Genovefe blinked and held up her loaf, saying to herself, "I wish we had some porridge as well as this."

"In the evening," said Ranegonda, not trusting her tongue to manage much more than that.

"Will they have wine as well?" She touched her head and giggled. "Is there enough wine in the fortress to give them each a Chaliceful? How will they work in the morning if they drink so much wine?"

"They will have mead," said Ranegonda.

Genovefe nodded several times, as if once started she found it difficult to stop. "I wonder what they make of this?"

"The villagers?" asked Ranegonda, feeling stupid because she could not follow Genovefe's remarks.

Pentacoste was on her feet, but she made no effort to join Ranegonda and Genovefe; instead she sauntered toward the hearth, smiling serenely at each man she passed, and at last choosing a place an arm's length from Rupoerht. She lingered there, occasionally glancing toward Ranegonda, but more often staring at the soldiers. Her mantel hung open enough to reveal the embroidery at the neck of her bliaut.

"The souls of the White Christ, and the wine," said Genovefe, and put her hand to her mouth in shock. "I don't question the—"

"I often wonder about it, too," said Ranegonda, cutting Pentacoste's companion short. "They say that there is rapture in Heaven. Is it this, the lightness, or something else?"

Genovefe nodded several times again, and waved vaguely in the

direction of Daga, who had just levered herself up from the floor. She would have called out to her, but that was not appropriate at Mass. "We are to have a difficult time with Njorberhta, I fear." she observed to Ranegonda. "She complained yesterday of shooting pains in her belly."

"It was the fasting," said Ranegonda, but with so much doubt that she could not pretend she did not share their worry. "She has been ill since she conceived."

"They say it will be a hard birth." Genovefe Signed herself. "May the White Christ protect her, and the old gods, too."

"May they all watch over her," said Ranegonda, and copied Geno-vefe's Sign. "And our women as well. Be sure that Culfre's wife has her herbs ready."

"Winolda says she lacks a few things she must have," said Daga with a frown as she gestured to the young woman kneeling, patiently waiting for Brother Erchboge to give her wine and bread for the banquet of her soul. "But she is ready to do all she can, though that may not be much."

Captain Meyrih's wife struggled to her feet, and then came toward Ranegonda, her wrinkles emphasizing her smile. "The Nativity Mass. It is always a joy."

Ranegonda did her best to nod in agreement, though the movement made her head swim, and her foreboding for Njorberhta dimmed the glitter at the edge of her vision. ''Brother Erchboge has been very eloquent today."

"The birth of the White Christ," enthused Genovefe, her face flushing as she spoke, her emotions only partly engendered by the wine. "It is a great occasion. It makes the winter fair as summer."

"Like other fine times," said Captain Meyrih's wife, placing her hands together with the loaf between her palms. "A pity we could not continue to gather holly for the Solstice, but I guess it is a small price to pay for the wine. There is always holly in the forest and we can find it if there is need, but wine is a gift from afar." Her chuckle was warm and contented. "There is holly above the bed, so what does it matter if we do not hang it in the Hall?"

"Or in the chapel," said Genovefe, who referred to the small building tucked into a corner of the eastern wall. Dark and draughty, it had been built just twenty years ago and already it leaked in a dozen places despite attempts at repair.

"Well, Brother Erchboge has declared he will remove all tokens of the old gods," said Captain Meyrih's wife. "It is fitting that we let him decide what will please the White Christ best."

Ranegonda wanted to say something about the old gods, but her

thoughts were turning sluggish and she found that she could not shape them into words; it was worse than trying to unfasten knots with gloves on. At last she managed to say, "If the old gods came to the White Christ, we could have the holly again, and Brother Erchboge would not complain of it."

Daga joined them, attracted by the laughter Ranegonda's words inspired. "It is a fine day," she said. "But it will be better once we eat."

The other women agreed, and a few of the men asked what the fuss was about as Brother Erchboge glared at them.

"We're hungry," explained Genovefe. "The Mass feeds our souls, but our bodies are famished."

"You have not yet surrendered to the White Christ," Brother Erchboge declared, his voice loud enough to bring the Hall to silence. "When you do, you will be replete with His presence and worldly food will not nourish you half so well."

Ranegonda looked over at the rail-thin monk. "We have not your calling, Brother, and our flesh is weaker than yours; surely the White Christ will forgive us our hunger," she said, hoping to forestall another long sermon; two years ago Brother Erchboge had talked for more than three hours at the conclusion of the Mass of the Nativity, and two of the roasted pigs had been burned dry as he held forth on the glory of withdrawing from the world.

Duart approached the door, his stooped shoulders bowed forward, prepared to keep everyone within the Common Hall until Brother Erchboge decided to release them. The doors were partially open now, letting in the frigid wind and wan light.

"It is my failing that you do not yet turn from earthly needs," said Brother Erchboge. He finished his service of wine and bread, then once again went to the west end of the Hall. "I must blame myself that you are not more moved by this glorious time."

"It is the snow," said Reginhart. "If we had not had so much snow, we would be more joyful." He indicated the door. "There is going to be snow again before nightfall. Look at the sky. It is hke pale slate."

"It is a hard winter," added Culfre. He stared at his wife before he glanced in the direction of Pentacoste.

"All the more reason to take refuge in the protection of the White Christ," said Brother Erchboge, his sunken eyes brightening. "He is the guardian of the world, and He will receive all who come to Him in penitence and grief. He is all-merciful. There is nothing in Him but Spirit, and the rewards of the Spirit are His. If the world treats you cruelly, turn from it and embrace the White Christ, for He will take away your sin and the world will no longer have power to hurt you."

'The snow will still be able to freeze us, however; the White Christ is not proof against the cold," said Amalric, who had just finished his loaf of sacramental bread and was looking about for something more to eat. "And my stomach growls whether I pray or not."

"There are those with faith who could sit naked in the snow and feel nothing but the warm breath of Paradise," said Brother Erchboge with quiet passion, and added, "I am not yet worthy for such faith, but I pray that in time I will show you this mystery."

"It would be a mystery," muttered Rupoerht, just loud enough to be heard. "Only a fool goes into the snow naked."

"A fool or someone who is holy," corrected Brother Erchboge. He paused to cough, a long, gagging sound that made those who heard it uncomfortable. He spat and then regarded all those who waited around him. "Perhaps you have listened enough for one day."

A few of the men-at-arms were openly pleased to hear this, but most of the rest behaved more cautiously. Ewarht motioned to them all to remain where they were, for he did not want to be detained for anticipating their dismissal.

Duart watched Brother Erchboge closely, his short-sighted eyes straining to make out any gesture that the monk would give him. When he saw none, he asked, "Is the Mass complete?"

Again Brother Erchboge coughed before he could speak. "Yes. It is complete."

Had Brother Giselberht still been Gerefa, he would have had to leave the Common Hall first, but since Ranegonda ruled in his place, it was the monitor who led the way out of the doors and summoned the slaves to place the tables and benches back in their usual locations.

Ranegonda reached the door at the head of the women only to find Pentacoste already out the door. She bristled at this casual insult but would not take her to task on the day of the Nativity Mass. There would be other occasions, she thought with weary conviction, when Pentacoste's contempt could be challenged. To avoid creating more shock, she turned back to Genovefe and said, "You had better be ahead of me, since your mistress has—"

Genovefe blushed as she grabbed the edge of Daga's mantel and pulled her with her through the door out into the snow. "It isn't fitting that we linger, with her carrying on as if she were a child."

"You don't bring children to Mass," said Daga.

Ranegonda watched the two women hasten after Pentacoste and tried to think of some way to convince her brother to speak with his wife, to remind her of her place in the world and the need for her conduct to be more appropriate. But as she reasoned it through, she

realized it was useless to hope for such a thing; Giselberht swore when he entered the monastery that he would never see his wife again. Nothing Ranegonda could say would change his mind. Whatever was to happen between Pentacoste and her, she would have to be the one to decide it. She permitted several other women to leave the Common Hall ahead of her before she stepped through the door herself, leaving after Winolda and Sigrad.

"You are being very good to her," said Duart to Ranegonda as he watched Pentacoste hurry toward the seaward tower. "Better than she deserves."

"I am doing as my brother bade me," said Ranegonda.

The monitor continued to stare after Pentacoste. "I suppose she meant ill, leaving as she did."

Although Ranegonda was convinced that Duart was right, she said, "Oh, I doubt that. She is hke a willful child, deprived of what she wants most and determined to make everyone sorry for it."

"A good beating would end that," said Duart bluntly.

"But my brother will not allow it," Ranegonda reminded the monitor; she was speaking more freely than she usually did, and decided that the wine was responsible for it. "I must abide by his orders where his wife is concerned." She continued beside the monitor a short distance, then turned to look down the alley between the soldiers' quarters. "I should see if Flogelind is improving," she remarked. "For her to keep away from Mass is a bad sign."

"Truly," said Duart at once, and inclined his head to her, stepping to the side so as not to show any intention of impeding her progress.

Ranegonda made her way through the slush to the door of the apartment assigned to Ulfrid, his wife, and three children. She paused long enough to Sign herself against the powers of disease, then rapped sharply. "It is Ranegonda," she said when she heard a soft cry from inside.

The oldest boy—a child of seven—opened the door and stared at Ranegonda for a moment. "My mother is sick," he said.

"I know," said Ranegonda, doing her best to deny the fear those words inspired. "I want to see her."

"She is sick," the boy repeated as he stood aside. Beyond him his younger brother sat on the floor playing with a little cart, and beside him his three-year-old sister sniffled because she was not permitted to touch the beloved toy.

The room was like all the other family quarters: a single large chamber divided by a partial wall, with the children's beds in the loft above their parents' on the smaller side of the division. A stone chimney rose

in one corner, the hearth shared with those in the family chamber next to this one. In the part of the room facing the chimney there was a table and two big chests containing their clothes and few possessions.

Flogelind was still in her bed, a single oil lamp providing light for her. She was wrapped in two woolen blankets and a rug of patched fur. She was pale but for two bright spots on her cheeks, and when she spoke her breath hissed like water in a closed cauldron. ''Gerefa."

Ranegonda leaned near the woman, wishing already she could leave. "How are you faring?" she made herself ask, trying not to think of the miasma that rose from the sick woman's body.

"I ... I am praying I will improve, and Culfre's wife has given me a poultice for my chest." She gestured to the strip of bark laid next to her pillow. "My man brought this to me, for strength."

"A powerful token," said Ranegonda, certain that the virtue of the tree was too little to banish the fever. "With protection and Winolda's herbs, you are going to recover. By the time the buds are on the trees, you will be weaving linen again." She wished she could believe her assertion.

"And Brother Erchboge has come daily to bless me," she said, her voice becoming raspy. "I have asked the White Christ to make me well."

"Good," said Ranegonda. "It is sad that you are not able to attend the Nativity Mass." She was glad of the wine in her veins now, for it gave her the appearance of courage where she actually felt dread. "I will tell the cooks that you are to receive an extra portion of goose today, to give you more strength."

"I hope it is not wasted," Flogelind whispered. "Forgive me. I . . . I cannot . . ."

"No," said Ranegonda, moving back from the bed. "Rest. One of the slaves will bring food for you and your children."

It was a terrible effort for Flogelind to speak, but she said, "You are good to me."

"I am Gerefa," said Ranegonda, moving toward the door. "It is my task."

Flogelind was not able to answer her, and the children were too distressed to respond with more than silent stares.

Once outside, Ranegonda leaned against the door, doing her best to keep from running away from the place. It was clear to her that Flogelind was going to die. Her fever was increasing and her strength ebbing, a disastrous combination that would certainly leach the life from her before many more days went by. To die at the dark of the year was very bad. She Signed herself and started back toward the open court where

those who had been at Mass were milUng about enjoying the headiness of their sacramental wine. As she stepped out of the shadow of the rough wooden buildings she saw Pentacoste leap into the air to catch the wreath of pine boughs one of the men-at-arms had thrown; whoops and shouts accompanied her. Concealing a sigh of despair, Ranegonda limped toward the edge of the group of men-at-arms, hoping to stop the display.

Daga hurried toward her, the edge of her mantel raised to cover half her face. "I am sorry, Gerefa. We told her it wasn't wise, but she was determined."

"I hardly thought you'd encourage her," said Ranegonda, and noticed that Daga was nearly weeping; she went on more gently. "You are not obliged to stop her, only to protect her when she is wild."

On the other side of the Marshaling Court, Pentacoste flung the wreath high into the air, calling aloud for one of the men to catch it before it fell. Half a dozen of the men-at-arms rushed after it, sliding and tumbling in the snow.

"How are we to—" Daga asked, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

"You aren't," said Ranegonda. "It is her doing, not yours." She continued to watch her brother's wife cavort with the men-at-arms, battling the sense of foreboding these revels evoked in her.

"If you could stop her—" Daga began, only to have Ranegonda interrupt her with an impatient gesture.

"If I could stop her, it would make it worse, not better. As it is she resents . . . me, this place, my brother. This is what she does to show her contempt. I am grateful that so far it is all she does, and that it appears that she is playing. If I kept her from this, she would claim injury. She would look to be the one who was deprived of winter amusements, not the kind of careless, frivolous woman who compromises her family and her husband." She had not meant to speak so bluntly, but now that she had done it she felt a degree of satisfaction that surprised her. She was about to go on when she felt a snowflake land on her face.

"Snow," said Daga, turning her face toward the sky.

Pentacoste gave a low, disappointed cry before she gathered up skirts and started toward the landward tower and her own quarters.

"Catch this!" shouted Culfre, who had snagged the wreath and now flung it with all his might after Pentacoste. His face was flushed and there was an eagerness in him that came only in part from the wine; he pointedly ignored the wounded stare of Winolda, who watched him from the shadows of the Common Hall.

"Get inside, whelp," called Captain Meyrih to Culfre, and shook his

head as the wreath dropped into the snow as no one attempted to grab it; his eyes were not yet so bad that he could not see the ill-omen in that. "Remember your wife. Have care for the things that matter, and be wary of snares," he admonished Culfre as the young man-at-arms stared after Pentacoste.

Ranegonda motioned Daga to follow Pentacoste, then fell silent in response to the omen of the snow, and was pleased to watch the others in the courtyard seek shelter in under the eaves of the buildings. What troubled Ranegonda, and had always troubled her the most about snow, she reflected as the flakes came in ever greater numbers, was that it made no noise. Rain, hail, sleet all announced themselves, but snow crept in more stealthily than a thief, and wrapped everything in gelid mystery. She drew her mantel closely about her and wished that she had one lined with fur; for the last year all the furs taken in the forest around the fortress had been commandeered by Margerefa Oelrih for his own use and the pleasure of the King.

Many of the others were retreating from the snow, going into their quarters and the landward tower for shelter and warmth. The hilarity of a moment ago was behind them, and some of the giddy merriment of the wine was fading, routed by the cold.

"Best get inside, Gerefa," said Rupoerht as he passed Ranegonda. "It's getting worse."

"Yes," she said, distantly. "I should go . . ." Her words faded as she started toward the seaward tower, telling herself that she was going to speak with Berahtram to be certain that no more charcoal needed to be carried up to the fifth level to fuel the light, as it was her duty to do.

Yet as she entered the seaward tower she paused, and as if drawn by an invisible cord, started toward the door of the storeroom.

Saint-Germanius had made many changes in the chamber over the last four weeks. While the old building supplies were still there, they were set aside in well-ordered stacks, and now took up less than a quarter of the floor space. From the woodcutters in the village he had purchased planks and built shelving along one of the angled walls; his trunks of earth were set against another, and a pallet of quarried stones left over from the building of the fortress lay in the center of the room, where Ranegonda found Saint-Germanius studying each of them in turn, occasionally marking one of the chiseled faces with charcoal. He raised his head as the door opened, no appearance of surprise about him.

Ranegonda stood with her back against the door. The rush and roar of the sea were audible here, caught and magnified by the walls. She

stared at him, taking care to hold her mantel-hood around her face, for the cold made her scars stand out.

"Gerefa?" Saint-Germanius said when Ranegonda did not speak.

"It's snowing," she said abruptly. "Just at the end of the Mass, as we left the Common Hall, the snow came."

He nodded, then set down the stone he held. He was dressed much the same as he had been since he purchased his clothing from the village weavers, but now he wore his foreign-design boots, high and stained dark with thick soles and a horseman's heel on them. "Is something wrong?" He could sense her turmoil and waited for an answer.

She touched her forehead with her free hand. "I ... I never . . ."

He came toward her, stopping little more than an arm's length away. "Tell me: what is the matter?"

"There is too much snow," she said, speaking slowly and Signing herself with care. "No one will be able to travel the roads, not even to Holy Cross. We are cut off." It was the first time she had admitted her fear aloud, and she shuddered suddenly as she realized the enormity of what she said.

"You are afraid of being cut off," he said as if he were talking about the color of a block of wood.

"Yes," she said. "There have been raids along this coast before now, Danes coming to take food and slaves. My father was killed in the last raid . . . three days after they left, his wounds rotted and he died." She shook her head, this time feeling queasy. "We have men here, but not many weapons."

"I can make quarrels for your crossbows," said Saint-Germanius.

"We have no extra metal," she said, putting her hand to her mouth. "The smith has a few old horseshoes, but if we have to fight, he will have to cast them afresh for the horses." She sighed. "There are one or two old kettles we could melt down, if the forge is good enough to do it."

"Let me build my athanor and it will not be difficult to use the kettles," he told her, his calm certainty gaining her attention. "I can make you arrowheads and caltrops. And I can make other things as well, including medicaments to treat the sick and the injured."

Ranegonda heard him as if he were far away. "I dream about raids at night. There is nothing but carnage in my dreams, and I pray that the omen is not what I fear. This cannot be prophecy, can it? I will not live to see this place become a charnel house, will I?" She stared at him, but would not let him answer her. "I think I see the Danes come, by land or by sea, and there are so very many of them, and so few of us. They

come in hundreds, and each one is twice-armed, with axes and bows. They swami over the walls like insects over dead sheep, and all that they leave behind are slaughtered men and ravished women with their bellies cut open." She put her hands to her face. "I am shamed to dream such unworthy things."

''You cannot help what you dream," said Saint-Germanius, knowing it was not quite true. He studied Ranegonda's eyes, his own revealing little.

"The dreams are always with me. I cannot escape them; they pursue me. Sometimes, when I am walking the parapet, or checking to be certain that the light is burning, the vision comes over me again, and I beseech the White Christ to banish such things from my mind. There are ruined bodies everywhere." She paused, horror making her pale more than the cold. "And other times, 1 see us all gaunt, more like Brother Erchboge than . .. The children have hollow faces and they are like dry husks. Everyone within the walls is weak, and the famine is so great that no one has the strength to hunt, and all the sheep and goats and geese and horses are gone; the soldiers fight over a starving dog. In a hard winter, it is possible this could come to pass, isn't it?"

'it is possible," Saint-Germanius agreed softly. "But you have taken measures to be sure that it does not happen."

'i want to stop it from happening." she said distantly, "i want it to be something we never sutler again. We starved here once, and fifteen of our men died. I was only ten, but I have not forgotten what I saw." She made a gesture o'i futility, 'if the winter is longer than we think it may be, what then?"

Saint-Germanius regarded her with compassion as he gave her the most practical answer he could. "You have laid meat down in salt. You have stores of peas and grain. You have flour in barrels. There are cheeses in the village, and enough livestock to keep you through the worst months.''

"And if there are raiders who take it all from us?" She wondered how she dared to admit so much to this foreigner when she was unable to speak of it to anyone else within the fortress walls, including Brother Erchboge. "What if the outlaws come out of the forest, or the King's men-at-arms are posted here? How will we survive such things, given our ..." She let the words fade.

"You are stalwart, Gerefa. You have come this far. Trust yourself to complete your task." This time his compelling eyes held hers, and his voice was lower, a soft resonance that reached deep within her. "You have great burdens here, but you have carried them alone. If >ou will permit me. 1 will share the load with you."

For several heartbeats Ranegonda stared at him, feeUng that she had never before truly seen him. Her mouth was dry as she asked, "Do you mean that you . . ."It was unimaginable that someone wholly unallied to the land should make such an offer.

"My land is long conquered," Saint-Germanius said to her. "My only ties are the ties of blood."

She made a sound between a laugh and a cough. "Then how—?"

"I offer you my help, in whatever way I may be of use to you, Gerefa." His dark eyes became more intense. "I will be your vassal if that will aid you. You have my Word on it."

"My vassal," she repeated, now bemused. "But why?" There was a catch in her voice now.

"You gave me back my life," he said simply, remembering the taste of her blood and the grit of sand. "With that gift there is a bond."

"Your wergeld?" she suggested, not ready to believe him. "You are proposing to meet the price in service?"

"There is no price for such a gift, Gerefa, but what is paid in kind." He continued to watch her, aware of her doubt and her hope.

She tried to look away and found that she could not. "You offer me your life?"

"If you will have it," he said, a slight, enigmatic smile touching the corners of his mouth.

"Even if I fail to defend this fortress?" Just speaking such damning words aloud agitated her; she swallowed hard against the constriction she felt in her throat. "Even if all the omens are true?"

"Yes," said Saint-Germanius steadily, and held out his arms to her.

It had been years since anyone had offered this simple comfort to her, and before Ranegonda could check her impulse, she sought the haven of his embrace, moving to him as if drawn by a lodestone. She was only half a head shorter than he, so it was easy to rest her head on his shoulder, her face turned away from him so that he would not have to look at what the pox had done to her. Tears she had refused for months to shed now filled her eyes. "What will become of us?"

"Winter will be hard," said Saint-Germanius very gently. He felt her desperation and her courage as he held her, as he had felt it through the stones of the fortress, the bond that had been forged on the beach. "And you will have to make decisions that you will not want to make." He laid one small hand on her head, the rough wool of the mantel's hood pressing his palm.

She tugged at the shoulder of his bUaut, biting a fold of the garment in order not to scream. In spite of her efforts to stop, she continued to weep, her anguish increasing, though she made almost no sound but a

high cry Hke a distant hawk. Her hands tightened. "Protect me," she whispered, speaking to the White Christ and the old gods.

But it was Saint-Germanius who answered, his voice low and steady. "I will."

Text of a letter from Berengar, son of Pranz Balduin, to his father. Carried by messenger from Bremen to Gostar by official courier. Delivered March 16, 938.

In duty to my noble father, my greetings as the ancient Romans made them on the first day of January, bringing my prayers for your success and health throughout the coming year from a hospice near the Monastery of the Angel of the Resurrection, and by the hand of Brother Audvarht.

I have returned to Germania from Lorraria, although I am well-aware that in so doing I am acting against your wishes. I regret that I must refuse to obey you, for it is rebellious of me to turn from your way. I know that my disobedience may well be rewarded with death if you are unwilling to forgive me or to permit me to do as I have determined I must.

It is my intention to seek out the daughter of Dux Pol. I have not forgotten that you forbade me to seek this woman, that the abduction of a married woman would result in war between our families. But Dux Pol has said that his daughter Pentacoste is wife no longer, and that although her husband lives, he has withdrawn from the world and is now a monk. This being the case, it is the same as if she were a widow, or so the Bishop in Lorraria told me, and the lady may marry again if her father permits her to do it.

lam aware of Dux Pol's reputation, and I do not deny that he has made whores of two of his daughters and used them for his own purposes, but it is not so with Pentacoste. She is unlike the others, as I attempted to tell you before she was sent into Germania to marry that Gerefa chosen by Margerefa Oelrih. You would not believe me then, and you would not believe that it was Margerefa Oelrih's intention to have her as his own, though I warned you it would happen if she was not given to me. You complained of the bride-price and you said that she would prove to be as debauched as her sisters, but this is an error.

As soon as the roads are clear and it is possible to reach this Leosan Fortress where she lives, I intend to go there and learn for myself what is her wish. I have already reached this place, but half-a-day's ride from Bremen, and I will venture north as soon as the first couriers take to the road. I will travel with one man-at-arms only, and pray that no misfortune delays our journey.

I have already spoken with Dux Pol: Pentacoste's father has said he

will not oppose my taking her, for he does not think she would he committing adultery since her husband has forsaken her for the White Christ. I have thought on this for some time, and I have decided that if she is content to remain the wife of a man who has set himself apart from her, then I will not compel her to accept me. But if she is discontented or if she has been made to sujfer, then I will remain with her or bring her out of Saxony, whichever is the wiser course.

You have told me I am mad, and it may be true that I am. It is a mania, to be so determined to have one woman above another when the families are satisfied with a different choice. I have no complaint against Delice, and her bride-price is a fair one, especially since it would include her younger sister. But Pentacoste has lodged in my soul like a barbed arrow and I cannot be rid of her, try as I may. I have confessed my obsession and I have begged the White Christ to break the hold she has placed on me, but I remain as I am. Be grateful, my father, that I do not wish for a woman who despises me, or whose family would make any union but rape impossible. It may be that Pentacoste and I will yet have years together, and children to show how greatly our lives are bound.

I am shamed by how I have behaved in regard to your orders. You are my father and you have authority over my life. But my soul is the pledge of Pentacoste's, and not even the White Christ can change that, or He would have kindled fires in m^ when I saw Delice. I care nothing for what is said of her father, I care nothing for the whispers about her sisters. I care only for Pentacoste herself. She is the star on which my destiny is fixed, and I will not turn from her.

May you come to forgive me, if you can. If you order my death, I will go with all the blood I can spill to wash me out to sea, and will count my dying a worthy death. Yet I warn you now, if you seek to do any ill to Pentacoste or to Dux Pol, I will require Pentacoste's husband to arm the men he once commanded to strike back at you for anything you may do to her. If I must strike from the grave, I will avenge Pentacoste and her honor though it send my soul to perdition and end our Family with my brothers and me. Thus it must be, from your son Berengar.

By the hand of Brother Audvarht

Twice a day, at dawn and sunset, the slaves collected the slops and dung from the fortress and disposed of them down the midden-slope on the south-west side of the wall. The villagers below brought the same, as well as the chaff from the field and the sawdust from their lumber. Heat from the midden kept it the one piece of clear ground when the rest of the area, save the frozen, rutted road, was calf-deep in snow. The roofs of the timber houses sagged with it, and the cut logs were buried in white blankets.

"At least we will have good tath for the fields in spring." said Rane-gonda as she looked down from the parapet toward the dark, steaming, pungent swath below.

"Because of the extra wood? The bark and the shavings are added with the rest, aren't they?" asked Saint-Germanius, who had taken to accompanying her on her daily rounds.

"That, yes, and so far the stock is healthy, so the dung is good." She moved further along, to the angle where the fortress kennels were. "Tomorrow there will be one more hunt, for boar, I think, unless the ground is so frozen that it is not safe to chase over it." She glanced toward the coops that faced the long row of stalls. There were fewer geese, ducks, and chickens than had been there a week ago. "I have set a few of the men to trapping geese for us. I am afraid the outlaws are getting them all."

"They are probably getting some," Saint-Germanius said as they continued to walk on the uneven stones. "They want food, as all men do."

Now the Baltic was coming into view, rolling in from the north, all green-and-slate, the breakers appearing like shifting fissures in rock. Its sound was muted compared to what it had been the day before, and Ranegonda studied the surface uneasily. 'T don't like it, so still and dark. They say that in winter it is often like this before the storms begin afresh."

"So I have heard," said Saint-Germanius, and continued with faint self-mockery, "But I fear that although I have traveled by ship, I am a bad sailor, and I have no advice to offer you. For me, all seas are equally distressing, even on the calmest of days."

She looked over at him, trying to discover if he was trying to amuse her. "What do you mean?" she asked him at last.

"I mean that I am a poor sailor. Surely you have heard of those who

cannot ride on the sea without becoming sick?" His quick smile was sardonic, and hid his deeper anxiety: that she would discern his nature and despise him, or worse. "I am one such. When I am far from the protection of earth, I am often miserable."

"Yet you are a merchant," she said.

"Yes, though I was not born to it," he agreed. "And whenever it is possible, I travel over land." For the three thousand years since he left his tomb, he had never learned how to fortify himself against the misery he felt crossing water. His soles, lined with his native earth, alleviated his distress somewhat, but with so much water and the ties of earth so tenuous ... He shuddered as he recalled the two days he had clung to the wreckage of the Midnight Sun and how ardently he had longed for the true death then.

"What is it?" Ranegonda asked him sharply.

He realized that something of his memories had shown on his face, and he made a quick, dismissing gesture. "It is only my thought of the sea."

She made no attempt to pursue the matter. Instead, she pointed down at the roof of the stables as they walked above them. "They will not stand much more weight. After the next snowfall, the slaves will have to shovel them or they could collapse on the horses. We can't lose any of them."

Saint-Germanius pointed to the smithy. "There is greater danger there, because there is more ice. The heat from the forge melts the snow during the day, and in the night it freezes again. You need the forge as much as you need your horses, or more."

She saw the long icicles around the entrance to the smithy and she made an abrupt sign of agreement. "The kitchens and bake-house, too, must have their roofs swept clear. And we need an ax at each of the cisterns, to break the ice in the morning."

"Yes, you do," Saint-Germanius said. "That, at least, I can supply you." His athanor was more than half-complete, and so far, in spite of the cold, the seal between the stones was holding. "It will take another week at most, but I should be ready then to set about making arrowheads for you."

"Radulph has complained to me," Ranegonda said, turning to Saint-Germanius. "It troubles me. I told him you would be able to melt down the pots and form them for arrowheads, and he said that you . . . you were using devils to do your work, and the metal would be cursed."

"The metal is iron," said Saint-Germanius, dismissing the matter. "Devils cannot touch it, and well he knows." He smiled at her. "I won't interfere with his work: tell him that."

She scowled. "He has already told a few of the men, including Duart, that you cannot be trusted, and the things you make bear ill omens." Her face clouded. "He says you have bewitched me, as Pentacoste bewitches men."

Saint-Germanius watched her face. "And what do you think?" he asked quietly.

"I believe that you have ... have done something to me." She caught her lower lip in her teeth. "Whether you bring an omen, or are a messenger, or ... or something beyond either, I do not know."

"You accepted my pledge of fealty," he said. He reached out and took her hand, raising it to press her knuckles to his forehead to reinforce his oath. "If this is an error, or you are affronted, you have only to tell me."

"No, I'm not affronted," she said, and continued along the ramparts, passing Ulfrid as he kept his watch. She glanced at the man-at-arms, then said impulsively, "Everything that can be done is being done, Ulfrid."

He swung around gracelessly, his heavy spear already angled across his chest for combat, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. "I. . ." He turned the spearpoint upward and put his hand to his forehead. "Your pardon, Gerefa. I didn't intend . . . My thoughts were elsewhere."

"With Flogelind," said Ranegonda, aware of the long hours he had spent at her side with Culfre's wife and Brother Erchboge. "It is a credit to you. Many another man would leave her to the care of the women."

"She is failing," he said, hating the words he spoke. "Today she is weaker than yesterday and her thoughts wander. She cannot eat."

"I fear for her, as you do," said Ranegonda, and Signed herself. "But pray for her, and hope." She studied his worn features. "Have Aedelar relieve you. I think you cannot keep watch when you are so tired."

"I know my duty," he declared, standing straighter.

"You do," she agreed. "And you know that you cannot discharge it when you are falling asleep as you stand," she went on. "Assign your post to one who can guard the fortress. Aedelar is in the armory, with Alefonz. Go tell him to take your place. Saint-Germanius and I will wait here until he comes."

Ulfrid tried to protest, but the words would not come. He leaned his long spear against the battlement. "I will find Aedelar," he said at last.

As he watched Ulfrid descend the narrow stairs between the saddlery and the seaward tower, Saint-Germanius said, "They are not going to be able to save her. He knows it."

"The White Christ will save her, but in Paradise." She shook her head in regret. "And the children will have no mother. They will have

to be put with one of the women." As she continued, she spoke as much to herself as to Saint-Germanius. "Rupoerht's wife has four and cannot deal with more; Faxon's wife will deliver in another month or so, and she cannot have these three other children as well when she has an infant of her own to care for; Njorberhta is too sick with the child she carries to be burdened with more; Sigrad will probably end up tending them, for her children are grown, and with Captain Meyrih growing more blind, she will want something to do to save them from charity."

"Who will replace Meyrih as Captain?" asked Saint-Germanius.

"Probably Amalric; he would be my choice, if it were mine to make," she answered. "I will have to speak to my brother before any decision is reached." She went nearer to the crenellated battlements and peered over them, looking down the foot of the seaward tower and the cliff below.

"Do you think your brother will agree?" asked Saint-Germanius, aware that she was bothered. "Or is there some difficulty?"

"Amalric has not always been willing . . ." She would not face him. "He is one who respects the old gods as much as he respects the White Christ, and my brother knows this. He may not want such a man leading the soldiers of this fortress, for fear that the White Christ may desert them in battle."

"And does this worry you?" asked Saint-Germanius.

"What worries me more is that there should be a Captain here who prays better than he leads men in battle," she said with asperity, and at last turned back to face him. "But there is nothing I can do until the snows melt enough to let us ride to the Monastery of the Holy Cross." She began to pace, in part out of restlessness, in part to keep warm, for the keen wind sliced through her mantel and bliaut and chanise as if it were Damascus steel.

"And in the meantime?" Saint-Germanms prompted.

"In the meantime, I will have Amalric act as Captain, but give him no title and privilege," she said. "He will accept it until my brother can be consulted, but after that he will demand a resolution, which is his right." She was shivering now but continued to pace, moving faster and clapping her hands against her arms. "Giselberht will favor Ulfrid, I suppose, for Ulfrid has served him and bowed to the White Christ. But Ulfrid will bury his wife before another week is out, and the men will not want to follow him into battle, for fear his grief should bring them all to bad ends."

At the base of the stairs Aedelar appeared at a run, calling up to Ranegonda. "Gerefa! The village headman is here, at the gate. He wants a word with you."

"The headman? Ormanrih?" she shouted back.

"Yes!" Aedelar was already coming up the stairs by twos, and as he reached the parapet, he touched his forehead. "He says it's urgent."

"Did he say why?" she asked.

"No. It is for your ears alone," answered Aedelar, catching his breath.

She nodded and made a signal to Saint-Germanius to follow her. "I will tend to him at once. See that you keep good watch, though it will be longer today."

"So long as there is hot mead waiting for me at the end, it is a small matter," said Aedelar as he picked up the spear.

Making her way down the narrow flight of stairs was too hazardous for Ranegonda to do more than concentrate on her weak ankle. It was only when they reached the courtyard that she spoke to Saint-Germanius again. "This fellow Ormanrih is a good headman. He is prudent and sensible."

"Excellent qualities," said Saint-Germanius, anticipating what was to come. "But he is wary of foreigners, and you are concerned that he might not want to speak to you in my presence."

She made a gesture of resignation. ''He might take you to be a bad omen if he is coming to tell me of something ill."

"I will await you in my workroom," he said, indicating the seaward tower behind them. "And you may tell the headman as little or as much as you wish about the foreigner you are holding for ransom." His irony was gentle, but Ranegonda brought her head up sharply.

She flushed. "Yes, there is the ransom. He will understand that." She turned away from him and hurried off between the bake-house and the quarters given to the cooks and the smith.

One side of the double gate had been opened, and waiting in the gap, with Reginhart and Culfre to watch him, stood Ormanrih, his grizzled countenance set in harsh lines, his big, hard hands twisting on his woven belt. He went down on his knees as Ranegonda came up to him. "God protect you, sister-of-our-Gerefa," he mumbled as he dutifully Signed himself.

"And you," said Ranegonda, Signing herself in response. "Rise and tell me why you need to speak with me."

"These men will Hsten?" he inquired anxiously as he got to his feet.

"If it is what you want," said Ranegonda. "Otherwise I will dismiss them and you may say what you wish privately."

Ormanrih gestured to the men-at-arms. "Remain with us. I will want someone who understands to hear me out." He coughed once out of

nervousness and once because he was near winter illness, and then said, "Last night there were men at the edge of the village, near where the first part of the stockade is up. They were searching for animals to steal. They are probably outlaws, and we in the village are certain that these were the scouts for a larger band. We were able to frighten them off, but if they come in greater numbers and we cannot flee to the fortress, or they burn us out of our homes, as they have done to many another village, we will be killed or made into slaves, and you will be at their mercy the next time they come." It was clearly a rehearsed speech, and when he had finished it, he folded his arms and stared directly at Ranegonda.

"How many men were there last night?" she asked him, making her voice level to show that she was not put into despair by this news.

"There were four," said Ormanrih. "Or four that we counted. More could have been waiting in the woods. They got away with a young sheep and a nanny-goat. The nanny is the greater loss; she produced much milk."

"I see." Ranegonda considered this report. "What makes you believe that these were scouts and not just desperate men trying to find enough to stay alive?"

"They were not gaunt," said Ormanrih. "There are villagers leaner than they were. And their weapons were very good."

Ranegonda nodded, aware that she would have come to the same conclusion herself with such men. "Four of them?"

"That we saw," answered Ormanrih. "We are willing to set up guards through the night, but ... we have our axes and our saws and our hoes, but they do not make good weapons against spears and bows and swords."

"No, they do not," said Ranegonda, and for the first time looked at Reginhart. "Well? How does it seem to you? Do you think Ormanrih has reason to fear for the village? And that we must protect them?"

"If the stockade were complete there would be no question," said Reginhart. "I know that the Margerefa expects the woodcutting to continue. If the outlaws burn the village, that won't be possible, and the fortress will be blamed for it." He stared hard at Ormanrih. "You would not be spinning tales, would you?"

"Not with a sheep and a goat gone," he said, and spat for emphasis.

"No, I suppose not," said Ranegonda, and glanced at Culfre. "What do you make of it?"

Culfre shrugged. "I don't want to spend the winter fighting off outlaw raids," he said. "And I don't want any of mine to be slaves to the

Danes. Stopping the outlaws now is easier than waiting for worse to happen, then facing enemies with fewer men and suppHes. And we would have the advantage of them this first time."

"Yes," said Ranegonda, satisfied that one of her men-at-arms had explained their predicament as she saw it, for that would have greater credibility with Ormanrih than if she gave her opinion first. "It appears we had better make preparations to mount a guard tonight." She motioned for Ormanrih to come inside the gates as she addressed Reginhart. "I want you to summon all our men but the ones on duty to the Common Hall at once."

"The foreigner as well?" asked Reginhart as he prepared to climb to the parapet and sound the wooden horn.

As much as Ranegonda wanted to say yes, she told him, "No; I will discuss as much of our plans as I decide is prudent with him later, in case he has anything that will help us win the battle. He will remain in his quarters."

Ormanrih, who had become suspicious at the mention of the foreigner, gave Ranegonda a grudging gesture of approval. "No telling what a foreigner might do. This is not his land. He has no reason to protect it."

"He is being held here," said Ranegonda. "To the extent that his fate is tied to ours, he must have some regard for the fortress." She had started to walk away from the gates toward the Common Hall, Culfre at her side, Ormanrih a respectful two steps behind her. "I will deal with that later. In the meantime I must arrange for you to drive your stock inside these walls for the night, and place my men-at-arms with you in the houses."

"What about our families?" demanded Ormanrih as he strode along in her wake.

"Something will be arranged," said Ranegonda, who had not yet decided how best to handle the villagers. She listened to the sound of the wooden horn—two long notes followed by a short one—signaling the men of the fortress to gather in the Common Hall.

Ulfrid was already inside and seated at the head of one of the long plank tables when Ranegonda stepped through the door, his worn face in his hands. He glanced at the new arrivals and nodded to them. "Sigrad is with Flogelind," he said distantly. "She will sit with her."

"Very good," said Ranegonda, aware that such a sentiment was foolish. She made a sign to the slave who kept the hearth to bring more wood, then gave her attention to Ulfrid once again. "How are your children?"

"Frightened," he said bluntly. "As well they might be, poor mice. They know their mother will die soon." He looked directly at Orman-rih. "There is trouble in the village, too?"

"Unfortunately," said Reginhart. He sat opposite Ulfrid as the other men began to arrive, three of them clearly newly risen from sleep and annoyed at having their rest interrupted.

The slave returned dragging a sledge with half a dozen logs piled on it. This he dragged to the fireplace and waited for Ranegonda to order him to build up the fire.

Ranegonda stepped to the head of the Common Hall, next to the hearth. It was quite warm there and she made a point of casting off her mantel before ordering that the slave put on more logs. "Just two for now," she said. "If we need more, you have them there."

The slave ducked his head and put his hand to his forehead before he set about his task.

Duart was almost the last to arrive; he was about to close the doors when Brother Erchboge came in, his face blank and his steps uncertain.

"Brother? Are you ill?" asked the monitor as he pulled the doors closed.

"No ..." said Brother Erchboge vaguely. "I was praying. I have . . . prayed for almost . . . two days without stopping."

"You'd better sit down," recommended Duart, and only in part because it was proper. "I'll send word to the kitchens to—"

"No," whispered Brother Erchboge, his voice cracking from enervation. "I do not want to break my fast yet. I am getting close, very close."

The general hum of low and speculative conversations ceased as Ranegonda held up her right hand. "There is trouble in the village, and we must attend to it," she began, and proceeded to recount what Ormanrih had told her. "It is our duty to protect the village, and those who live in it, man and beast."

There was a grudging sound of assent.

"Listen to me," said Ranegonda before the men could become caught up in their own opinions. "We have sworn to the King that we will hold this region for him, and so we shall. Leosan Fortress will prove its loyalty." She had her hand resting on the hilt of the dagger she carried in her belt. "We will bring the women and children and livestock within our gates; we will have to leave the poultry and dogs because we have no room for them, and because we will want them to warn us. We will send our men-at-arms to take their places in the houses and barns, so that no building will offer a hiding place for any

outlaw or raider, be it house or barn or sawing shed." There was nothing remarkable about this plan, but the men welcomed it with hoots of approval.

Ormanrih glowered at the floor. ''What if they attack the fortress directly?"

"Then they are fools," said Ranegonda. "Danish raiders might try an attack from the sea, but for outlaws to come from the forest, no, they must first secure the village if they are to have any hope of reaching these walls. And we will be at pains to keep them from doing it."

This time the answering growl was one of enthusiasm, and Ranegonda felt less apprehension as she began to outline her plan, taking heart from the way her men-at-arms heard her out without cavil.

By sundown the women and children from the village, along with two woodmen who had lost an arm each to their work, were inside Leosan Fortress, their stock milling in hastily constructed pens which took up most of the Marshaling Court. The cooks had accepted the half-dozen geese and two goats the villagers brought to augment the food for their increased numbers, but they balked at serving two meals instead of one; Duart had to persuade them to take on the extra task by promising the villagers would not be inside the fortress for more than a day, so that the crowding would not become oppressive to all of them.

But the outlaws did not come the first night, nor the second, and by the third the men-at-arms were getting restive and had started to complain that their precautions were useless, claiming that Ormanrih had been mistaken in his report and that what he had taken for outlaws were only a family of outcasts scavenging their way through the forest; a few of the villagers agreed, determined to get back to their houses and their work before they fell so far behind that they could not catch up before spring came and the demands of the new planting claimed most of their waking hours.

'T tell you there is no reason to keep up the patrol at the stockade," complained Berahtram as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "We can do a good enough watch from the houses. And this shed is colder than the tomb."

"Still," Amalric told him as they peered out into the night, "we have to do it until the Gerefa says otherwise."

"What does she know of fighting?" asked Berahtram. "She knows women's things, and to do as her brother instructs her. But he cannot be reached, and she is floundering, afraid of shadows."

"She is Gerefa here," said Amalric, "and therefore she is our master."

"Better she should be our mistress," said Berahtram, and sniggered.

Amalric gave him a hard look that was not lost on Berahtram even in the darkness. "If you repeat that, you may find yourself in the cold, comrade-at-arms."

Berahtram shrugged. "Surely it makes no sense to let an unmarried woman have charge of fighting men. How will she do when she sees battle?"

"She is Gerefa, that is all I can say of her. It is all any of us need to know her. If she brings us to grief, I might ask for Margerefa Oelrih to find us another, or require her brother to appoint another. But until she does that, I have my vow to uphold." He hunkered down in the door of the rough shed where the logs were stripped of branches and cut in half lengthwise. "Rupoerht and Frey are keeping guard over the stockade until midnight. Geraint and Maugde will relieve them. Remember to watch for their signal."

"Forty-three men-at-arms at this fortress and we have to be the ones sitting in this freezing shed!" whispered Berahtram. "Where is the sense in that?"

"It is the task we have been given," said Amalric.

"All very fine for you; you're going to be Captain next. But why should it fall to me to be here?" He picked up a palm-sized chip of wood and flipped it into the air.

"Stop that," said Amalric. "If we're being watched that could be noticed."

"So could our talking," said Berahtram. "If anyone was out there. But it is all phantoms. Not that they are not bad enough, but there is nothing we can do to stop them, and mounting a guard is senseless."

"Phantoms don't steal sheep or goats," said Amalric, and shifted his position to keep his legs from falling asleep.

"You want to know what I reckon about that?" volunteered Berahtram.

"No," said Amalric.

"I reckon that they killed them for themselves, and didn't want the Gerefa to know." He wagged a finger at Amalric. "You wait and see. It will turn out to be just that. I know it will. Farmers are always trying to find ways to cheat the fortress. In the meantime, we're getting slow and stupid, waiting for something that will not happen." He had just started to rise in order to stretch his legs when a quarrel caught him high in the shoulder near the neck.

There was blood everywhere, gouting from Berahtram's jagged wound; he staggered and fell, hoarse, low bellows coming from him with each breath as he writhed in pain. More than breath the blood

steamed in the frozen winter air, filling the shed with the scent of hot metal.

Two more bolts crashed into the cutting shed, one of them narrowly missing Amalric. He flung himself across the dirt floor to Berahtram, landing almost atop the other man, pinning him to the ground. "Lie still. Lie still," he whispered, and when Berahtram ceased to struggle, he crawled toward the door, peering out into the dark.

At the edge of the houses there was movement. At least a dozen men were sidling through the shadows. Amalric could see the dull gleam of a sword blade on the other side of the rutted road. Very carefully he inched backward, pausing to be certain that Berahtram was still breathing before he made it out the rear of the cutting shed. He got to his feet and sprinted toward the nearest house, keeping low in case the sound of his footfalls should alert the armed men.

Faxon opened the door to Amalric's signal, and stared in horror as he saw in the feeble light from the oil-lamp the blood smeared on Amalric's face and clothing. "What . . . ?"

Speaking just loudly enough to be heard, Amalric shoved his way through the door. "The outlaws are here. They've got Berahtram. He's badly wounded. They are on the other side of the village, maybe twelve of them, maybe more." He Signed himself and reached for his battle-ax. "Get ready. And warn the rest. As quietly as you can."

Faxon nodded dumbly, touched his hand to his forehead, and hurried past Amalric into the night.

"You say Berahtram is wounded," whispered Walderih.

"Base of the neck. He's bleeding worse than a pig." Amalric kept his voice low, too, and added, "Be careful for fire. They may try to burn the houses."

"I will," said Walderih, drawing his sword.

"Good." Amalric opened the door a little way, trying to make out any movement on the other side of the road. "Wait for my signal and then attack."

"A whistle like a kite makes," said Walderih.

"That's it," said Amalric, and again slipped into the night, this time hurrying toward the approach to the fortress where Ewarht was waiting. "They're here. Tell the Gerefa."

"At once," said Ewarht, and moved away swiftly up the slope toward the gates.

Amalric did not finger; he ducked and ran for the next house, rapping out the recognition code as he slipped around the corner to the door. He did not bother to enter the door but whispered his orders, then slunk toward the next house, the lure of battle starting to sing in his veins.

He felt more than saw the sword cleave downward, and swerved away from its deadly descent just as he brought his battle-ax around in an arc. The blade struck and bit deep, and a high, wailing cry rent the night. At once Amalric gave his kite's-cry signal and straightened up, jerking his ax free, prepared to battle anything coming against him.

Behind him was the drumming of hooves as ten mounted men-at-arms careened down the road from the fortress, all of them with long-swords drawn, each with a torch in his hand with his reins.

From the other side of the road angry shouts arose, and suddenly the deep shadows were alive with men. They plunged forward, swords and spears at the ready as the doors of the village houses burst open.

Amalric swore by the White Christ and the old gods by turn as he rushed toward the outlaws, slipping and stumbling through the frozen ruts. Once he nearly fell; his out-flung arm steadied him but sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder. He longed for even the sliver of a moon to light the battle, but there were scudding clouds overhead. With a loud shout he rushed toward the men he could barely see on the far side of the road.

The mounted men slammed into the outlaws at almost the same moment, their horses pawing and whinnying, the torches showing little but the occasional face or shoulder of one of the outlaws, or the shine from their weapons.

It was a chaotic, blundering encounter, and it ended almost as quickly as it had begun. At one instant the outlaws were grappling with the men-at-arms from the fortress, in the next they were fleeing back through the snow-bright fields to the shelter of the forest. A few of the mounted men took off after them, whooping and harrying the outlaws, but most were willing to remain at the houses and to hand their torches to the soldiers on foot the better to assess the damage that had been done in that brief, deadly encounter.

"There are two of our men dead, and three of the outlaws that we can find," Amalric reported to Ranegonda shortly after first light. He was at once exhausted and exhilarated, and he spoke quickly, pacing as he talked. "One of the horses was badly cut in the cannon bone and we will have to kill him. The cooks can use the meat afterward and the hide goes to the saddler, unless you have other orders. We have five wounded men, one seriously, the others less so. We captured four of the outlaws, each one of them is hurt somehow. They are in the village still. One of the houses was damaged but it can be repaired."

"Who died?" asked Ranegonda. "Of our men? And what was lost with them?" She was at the writing table in the muniment room, and

her face was grave, more for Amalric's news than for the steady ache from her ankle. "Did we lose weapons as well as men?"

"One spear was lost. Berahtram and Frey are dead. Neither of them could have been saved." He Signed himself. "Reginhart is wounded, and so are Maugde, Aedelar, Culfre, and Ferrir." He stopped still. "Reginhart is badly hurt."

"I am sorry to hear of it," said Ranegonda steadily as she wrote this down on the scraped sheet of parchment where the earlier writing had not been entirely eradicated. "When you say Reginhart is badly hurt, how badly?"

"He has a wound deep in his arm and the bone is broken." His face grew more somber. "It would be best to take the arm off; that might save him."

"And it could kill him, too," said Ranegonda, setting her quill aside. "I will speak with Culfre's wife, to see what she advises." She knew she would also ask Saint-Germanius to advise her, though she would not admit it to her men. "The outlaws have exacted a high price from us for their defeat."

"It is not what we hoped for," said Amalric, and continued his report. "The men have taken the wounded to the Common Hall, for Brother Erchboge to bless them and pardon their sins in case their wounds rot."

"Brother Erchboge is not... not himself," said Ranegonda, who had found the monk on the parapet leaning on the landward tower with arms outstretched, muttering about the power of God in stones. He was shaking with cold but his hands and forehead were hot, and now he lay in his quarters, a slave minding his fire, speaking to things only he could see.

"That's bad," said Amalric, Signing himself again, and adding, "Who is to bless them, if they die?"

"I don't know," said Ranegonda. "We will all have to pray for them and hope that it is enough." She looked up from the parchment. "Is there anything else?"

This last was difficult for Amalric to get out. "Geraint claims ... he told me he saw ... he saw Karagern among the outlaws." Now that the words were out he looked away from her as if to disown this identification. "I did not see him, nor have any of the others said anything of it. But Geraint is convinced."

Ranegonda sighed. "Tell him I want to speak with him later."

"All right," said Amalric. "And the wounded?"

"I will visit them shortly," she promised. "Go and heat the bathhouse. If Brother Erchboge upbraids us for it later, we will endure it.

You do not bathe for vanity, but to be rid of blood. For now, it is fitting that you should wash away that blood, yours and others', as well."

"Thank you, Gerefa," said Amalric, then added with an odd expression, "The foreigner is waiting to talk to you. He has already been with the wounded."

"Has he?" She discovered this did not surprise her.

"He claims he can help some of them." He studied her. "I don't know if the men will want him near them."

"If he can help them, they will have to accept his presence," said Ranegonda firmly, hoping she could find a way to persuade them. "Tell him to come in." She was glad she had a reason to send for him; for most of the evening she had wished she might have him with her.

"If you want," said Amalric, and started toward the door of the muniment room. "I will see those men myself before I sleep."

"Do that before you set the watch for the morning. Then have your bath and get some rest. You are worn to the bone by the look of you." She had risen and as she came around the end of the writing table she raised her skirt to just above her ankles as a sign of her respect for what he had done.

Amalric looked at her in surprise, then touched his forehead. "You are very kind to a soldier, Gerefa."

"You deserve kindness, Captain Amalric," she answered, now determined to convince her brother that Amalric must be given the promotion he had temporarily assumed. "I will speak to you after the mid-day meal. I will need your assistance in getting the villagers back to their houses before sunset."

"Very well," he said, "I will obey you, Gerefa." He touched his forehead and then withdrew from the muniment room, his step prouder than it had been when he arrived. He paused at the entrance to the landward tower, looking out into the pens of the Marshaling Court. "Foreigner," he called.

Saint-Germanius stepped toward him, his dark mantel so wrapped around him that the wan first light revealed nothing of his face. "Yes?"

"The Gerefa will speak with you." He did not move aside. "Is there really anything you can do for the wounded?"

"I trust there is," said Saint-Germanius. "Not as much as I would like, but I can give them some relief, and perhaps help them recover."

Amalric considered this response. "Then I pray you will do all you can. We haven't enough men as it is; with five wounded, we are in great danger."

"I am aware of that," said Saint-Germanius, and went toward the muniment room as Amalric stepped out of his way.

Ranegonda had opened one of the three massive books that held the records of the fortress, and she did not look toward Saint-Germanius as he entered the room. "Wait a moment," she said distantly as she frowned at the page. "I'm almost finished with this."

Saint-Germanius closed the door and stood quietly while she read, his compassionate dark eyes on her. Only when she closed the book did he move toward her. "Gerefa."

"What can you do for the wounded men?" she asked abruptly. "You told Amalric you might be able to help them."

"Yes." The firm line of his mouth softened. "I have some knowledge of sickness and injuries," he said, thinking back to the seven hundred years he had served in the Temple of Imhotep tending the sick and the dying in long-vanished Thebes, and the many times since then he had seen war and plague and famine and wished there were more he could do. "And while I do not have every medicament I would like to have, there are a few things I can do to treat your soldiers. If you will permit me." He was saddened that his athanor was not quite complete, for there were certain substances that could only be created within it, substances of great power against disease and rot.

"I will speak to the men; it will have to be their decision. If they do not refuse, I will not, and you will have my gratitude," she told him, and leaned back in her wooden chair, regarding him with a certain speculation. "It is a pity we are holding you for ransom, or I might have asked you to ride with my soldiers. We are short-handed enough that it may yet be necessary." She chuckled at the absurdity of the idea, and was surprised when he did not laugh with her.

"If your soldiers would have accepted me, I would have done it," he said, and came another step closer to the table. "You may ask it of me at any time."

"To what purpose?" she inquired, too downcast to enjoy matching wits with him.

"To defend you," said Saint-Germanius simply.

She shook her head and looked away from him, aware that she wanted to hear him say this, and knowing that she could not trust herself where he was concerned. "Because you have told me you would? What other oaths have you made that must be honored before yours to me? And you say you will not fight your way out of my troops and our enemies, to be free?" she asked, realizing how near he stood.

His smile was quick and ironic. "If all that held me here were stone walls and armed men, I would have been gone more than a month since," he said.

"Oh?" She wanted to sound unconvinced and hard, but she could

hear the hope in her voice and chided herself for a wayward dreamer.

"It isn't the prospect of being ransomed that binds me. What holds me here, Ranegonda, is you." His eyes were so fascinating that she could not look away from them.

"Because you swore to me," she said, appalled at how eager she sounded.

"Yes." He put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "I am bound to you until the true death. Believe this."

Because she wanted so much to be convinced, she shook her head in disdain. "You are trying to mislead me, to confuse me. I will not be confused by you. I will accept your help because it is needed, not because I have faith in your vow, or because I find you engrossing company. You offer me your help to lessen the debt you have to ransom. It is not your word to me; it cannot be that. No man willingly remains a captive."

Her attempts to goad him into a sharp retort or a betrayal of his oath failed; his enigmatic, knowing eyes were warm with comprehension. He reached out and ran one finger along the line of her jaw. "Then perhaps," he said gently, "I am not a captive."

Text of a letter from the factor Bientuet of Quentovic in Francia to Hrotiger in Rome. Carried by merchants' messenger to Auxerre, transferred to a company of monks and taken to Fraxinetum, where it was placed aboard a ship bound for Ostia, and received by Saint-Ger-manius's factor there and personally delivered in Rome on April 6, 938.

To the most honorable Hrotiger, bondsman of the Excellent Comites Saint-Germanius, my greeting on this 9th day of February in God's Year 938.

It is my regretted duty to report to you that there has been no word from Hedaby on the fate of the Golden Eye or the Midnight Sun. I have spoken with three Captains whose ships have come through the worst of the storms to land here with the first goods of the new year, and the tales they tell do not leave me much reason to hope for your master.

From what has been learned at Hedaby, more than eight ships went down in that first early storm of the winter, and there has not yet been any notice of the wreckage of the ships at any place near Hedaby. The magistrate at Slieswic has also sent information regarding these missing ships. No record has been made revealing the fate of those two ships, their crews, or your master; not even a demand for ransom has been received there.

I will do as you wish, of course, and I will speak to each Captain I can

to discover if there is any news. If there is, I will send it to you as quickly as may be, so that whatever you learn, you will be able to act swiftly.

Do not give up hope, I pray you, for these are only the first ships of the spring, and they have come from nearby harbors. Surely when ships arrive from greater distances there will be someone who will know what has become of the two ships, and from that you will be able to learn the fate of the Excellent Comites.

When the other ships reach Quentovic I will be at pains to find the most profitable market for the goods they carry, and I will require that the Captains report to me everything they can remember in regard to their voyages. This, too, I vow to send to you by the fastest means. These men may give you the greatest aid, for they were the last to see the missing ships.

In the certainty that the White Christ answers all prayers, I commend the Excellent Comites to the care of Him, and I beseech you to do the same.

By the hand of Lazurin, scribe of the factor Bientuet of Quentovic

A soft spring rain was turning the remaining snow to dirty slush; the fields, newly plowed, offered bare rows to the women who donned pluvials and set about the planting in spite of the weather. At the edge of the forest, the men continued to raise the stockade they had been ordered to build; by now a third of the log wall was up and the holes for the next ten logs were being dug.

The sound of the wooden horn announced the arrival of the first visitor to the fortress since the previous autumn, and summoned most of the residents of the fortress to the Marshaling Court.

Ranegonda, who had been at prayers with Brother Erchboge, looked up as she heard the sound. "What on earth?"

"If it is on earth it has no place in your prayers," said Brother Erchboge sternly. He was still not entirely recovered from the fever that had seized him more than a month ago, and the glassy shine of his eyes warned that he was about to suffer another bout of the debilitating illness.

"Then I had best leave this chapel," said Ranegonda, grateful for the

excuse to rise from the dank stones. She dragged on her pluvial and limped out toward the Common Hall, glancing up at the landward tower as she went.

"Two riders!" shouted Aedelar from the parapet. "On good horses."

Ranegonda shouted back, "Open the gates!"

Her order was relayed through the men on guard, and three of them rushed to draw back the massive bolt. As one side moved ponderously open, Ranegonda reached the gate.

"Is it the Margerefa?" she asked Chlodwic as he struggled with the gate.

"No, I don't think so," he answered, breathing hard. "He'd have more men with him, wouldn't he?"

"I would have thought so," said Ranegonda quietly, aware that if the visit were not official Margerefa Oelrih would want as few men with him as possible. She stood to the side of the opening, waiting to see who was coming.

A short while later, Berengar and his servant came to a halt at the open gate. "Leosan Fortress!" the young nobleman called out. "The son of Pranz Balduin seeks to enter."

"The gate is open," said Ranegonda, stepping forward so that she could be seen. "As Gerefa here, I make you welcome." She raised her skirts above her knees in deference to his rank.

Berengar rode through the gate and halted, his servant behind him. "I am Berengar," he announced, and swung off his horse as one of the stable slaves came running to take the reins from him. "My servant's mount as well," he reminded the slave, then turned to Ranegonda. He was wrapped in a pluvial of fine boiled wool, the hood ornamented with an embroidered edge. His brown hair was longer than most soldiers wore theirs; his face was open and handsome. "Allow me to present you ten gold pieces and a bag of grain for planting." He had pulled a large bag from behind his saddle, and this he offered to Ranegonda, then reached for the wallet hanging from his belt and opened it, drawing out ten gold pieces and handing them to her with a flourish. "It is my intention to remain here at least a month. This will render my accommodation no burden."

"At least a month," Ranegonda repeated, her eyes narrowing. "For what reason do you come here at all?"

He waved his hands as if he had taken a whim. "I have long been curious about these remote fortresses. I thought I would learn if I wanted to seek one for my own. And," he added, "as an old friend of mine is here, I decided this would be the best place to come."

Ranegonda felt her spine go cold. "An old friend, you say? Which of these men has been your friend?"

"Oh, not the men here," he said with a charming smile as if the rain meant nothing to him. "The wife of Gerefa Giselberht, Pentacoste. I have known her for some time."

For a dozen heartbeats Ranegonda could find nothing to say to this new arrival, for she was in no position to remind the son of a Pranz that he was behaving incorrectly to come here without the invitation of her brother. Surely, she told herself, he must know this. And that he is here means that he does not care. She cocked her head to the side. "I fear you will find our hospitahty poor, not at all what you are used to. We live very simply here, as you see, and we have no entertainments to offer you beyond stag-hunting. For a man from the court of Pranz Balduin, you may find our ways limited."

The servant had dismounted and was now busying himself unfastening various containers and bags from his saddle; he set them on the ground with an expression of distaste.

"I supposed I might," said Berengar. "But I have brought my kithre with me, to fill any empty hours. Perhaps some of your famihes here would find it enjoyable to hear." He beamed at her, his square, regular features so open that she realized she could not object.

"I will have to tell my brother of this when I visit him at his monastery in three days." It was the best response she could make, she decided.

"Excellent. Excellent." He looked around the courtyard. "Where do you intend that my servant and I should stay?"

It was tempting to say that she did not intend them to stay anywhere within the walls, but that was beyond the bounds of vassalage and courtesy. She considered the problem briefly, knowing that to delay the answer would be offensive to her unwanted guest. There were two rooms she might give him without offering him insult: one on the level between the cloth room and the light room in the seaward tower, one immediately above Pentacoste's suite in the landward tower. She pointed north, toward the sea. "There is a chamber on the fourth level that is empty now," she said, glad that Saint-Germanius was housed on the second level of the seaward tower, and that there was always a guard awake to tend the flame on the fifth level. "You may go there. Your servant will have to sleep there, too. We haven't any room to spare for servants."

A number of the men-at-arms not on duty found an excuse to wander out into the Marshaling Court to have a look at this unexpected arrival, and in the alleys between the soldiers' quarters several of the wives

peeked out, with their younger children gathered around their skirts to stare. One of the cooks had left the kitchen and was standing in front of the bake-house, openly staring. A few of the slaves dared to watch the encounter at the gate.

"That is most satisfactory," said Berengar, his face again showing his pleasure. "Have your monitor show my servant the way."

Ranegonda looked around the gate-court, and signaled Theobald, the eleven-year-old son of Radulph, the smith, who had been idhng near the Common Hall watching the new arrivals. "Come here, boy," she shouted to him, and went on more moderately as he approached, "I want you to take this servant to the fourth level of the seaward tower."

Theobald put his hand to his forehead and regarded the servant with undisguised curiosity. "The fourth level," he repeated. "Follow me, well-born fellow," he said.

Berengar laughed again. "He's not any more well-born than you, whelp," he said to the smith's boy. "He's just better dressed."

The servant gave his master a sour look but said nothing as he picked up two of the cases and strode after the youngster.

"A good man in his way, is Ingvalt," Berengar said with sunny approval. "He has been with me for three years now, and aside from his constant disgust with the world, I have no complaint of him."

"Many worthy men have disgust with the world," said Ranegonda, with her brother in mind.

"True, but someone has to live in it, and attend to it, and people it, or Creation is in vain." His smile was more determined than ever.

Belatedly two more slaves from the stable came running, their heads lowered in shame, to take the horses. Both of them were sniffling from the wet clothing they wore. One of them muttered an excuse for their tardiness while the other tried to get a look at the Pranz's son from over the rump of his horse.

"Rub them down and clean the mud from their legs. Bring the saddles to my quarters. And see to it that they have grain, and some honey," said Berengar as the slaves started to lead the horses away.

Ranegonda signaled them to stop. "I fear we have neither to spare. Your horses will have the same feed as ours."

Berengar considered this and shrugged. "In a place like this, I suppose it is the sensible thing to do."

"If you want to purchase extra grain, talk to the villagers. They may have some extra, but I doubt it." Ranegonda was not willing to extend more than minimal privileges to this newcomer, not when she suspected his errand might well serve to dishonor her brother and the fortress.

There was a sudden cry of recognition, and Pentacoste emerged from the seaward tower, where she had been in the cloth room. "My dear friend," she exclaimed as she hurried toward Berengar with unseemly pleasure. She stopped a short distance from him and raised her skirt to the middle of her thighs. "I never imagined you would come to a place like this."

"I might say the same of you," Berengar countered, and while he did not so far forget himself as to go on one knee to her, he bent over her hands as deeply as if she were a Dux hke her father.

"How good to see you," Pentacoste went on, her beautiful mouth curved in a smile. "I cannot tell you how happy you make me."

Around the Marshaling Court the men-at-arms pretended to be at tasks while they continued to listen.

Berengar looked her full in the face. "It was worth the bad roads and the terrible weather to be here with you."

Ranegonda was filled with despair as she watched, and she strove to put an end to this disastrous meeting. "Pentacoste," she said as firmly as she could, "I want you to escort this son of Pranz Balduin to the Common Hall, where you may speak with him. I will arrange for bread and hot mead to be brought." The cooks would object, she knew, but it was better than permitting this display to continue.

Pentacoste's lovely eyes were glittering as she turned to regard her sister-in-law. "How good you are," she said, an edge in her voice.

"And then," Ranegonda went on, speaking more loudly, "the rest of us can return to our work."

There was a general shift of attention in the Marshaling Court, and those children who had crept to the edges of the gate-court vanished.

Berengar bent down and retrieved one of the cases still waiting to be taken to the fourth-level room in the seaward tower. "My kithre. I would not like it to get wet, not after coming so far."

"Oh," said Pentacoste with a sigh of dehght. "It has been forever since I heard someone play."

"I am better now than when you heard me last," said Berengar as he fell into step beside her.

Ranegonda watched them go with foreboding. "What possessed him to come here?" she asked the air quietly, and cringed at the answers she heard in her mind, fears that increased the next day as Pentacoste flaunted her way around the parapet with Berengar, taking care that everyone saw her with the handsome nobleman, making certain that his attentions were observed and his every courtesy noticed.

"Is that the reason you asked for my escort? You wish to make a

point to Pentacoste and her Pranz's son?" Saint-Germanius inquired as he rode out of the gates with Ranegonda the following morning. It was the first time he had been on a horse in five months; he longed for his Persian saddle in place of this high-pommeled, high-canteled thing. The raw-boned chestnut mare had a jaw-breaking trot and a hard mouth.

"And to the others," she said after a silence. "I thought . . . they would be less conspicuous if you came with me." She held her dun to a mincing trot as they made their way to the gap in the incomplete stockade wall that would become a gate by the end of summer.

He accepted this, but added, "What of you? Will my presence be regarded with disfavor by your brother?" He nudged his horse to take the lead as his escort duty stipulated.

The edge of the forest was just ahead, and the horses had to be slowed to a walk as they entered the trees, for the road was narrow here and the branches low. Many an unwary rider had been unhorsed by striking a limb, or by a horse tripping on a knot of root. They reached the place where the road divided, the better track turning off to the south-west to join with the road from Slieswic to Hamburh, the narrower one turning east toward the Monastery of the Holy Cross; they left the main track for the lesser one.

Ranegonda did not answer his question. "I've decided that we must send a few groups of men into the forest to find hives. The cooks have almost no honey left, and they have asked repeatedly that more be supplied."

Saint-Germanius said nothing about her change of subject. "Why not build hives in the village? It would not be difficult to do. Surely that is safer and more reliable than having to search the forest for hives?" When she did not answer, he looked back over his shoulder and went on, "I can show you how." He had first learned the skill nearly two thousand years before, in his homeland far to the south. There the farmers had built hives in their vineyards and reaped a double bounty.

"Yes," she said suddenly. "Yes, do that. The villagers would like that, as well as the cooks. And tell the Brothers how to, as well, while we are at the monastery. I know my brother would be appreciative of such a gift, and the other Brothers as well. It will lessen—" She broke off

"Your brother will be less upset by me if I can present him something of use," said Saint-Germanius, long-familiar with that particular bargain.

Her face darkened. "Yes."

As the words abruptly ceased between them, Saint-Germanius be-

came aware of something more immediately troubling than her apprehension at facing her brother. He drew in, one hand raised, then shifted his weight forward and pulled his sword from the saddle-scabbard.

Ranegonda looked at him in surprise, then unsheathed her short sword. "What is it?" she demanded in a voice not much louder than the clop of their horses' hooves.

"It's too quiet," he answered her just as softly. He tightened his calves and the horse moved on, lifting her knees higher in response to the pressure. "Soon," he warned Ranegonda.

She made a sound to indicate she heard him.

Not far ahead the track swung around the massive trunk of a long-fallen oak. There was a stream beyond it that had to be jumped, Saint-Germanius remembered from the description he had been given the evening before. It was an ideal place for an ambush. Saint-Germanius wished now that he knew the mare he rode better. He drew the reins in hard and at the same time drove his spurred heels into her. As he hoped, she reared.

Two men in old-fashioned leather armor vaulted over the fallen tree, one with a sword, one with a maul. They took up a position on the road ahead, crouched and ready to fight, but they kept their distance for fear of the chestnut mare's hooves, which lashed out as she came down.

Saint-Germanius forced the mare forward and then pulled her up again; at the height of her rear, he leaned down and struck the man with the maul on the side of his head with the flat of his sword. There was a loud crack and the man collapsed soundlessly, blood running from his ear.

The second man was already starting forward, but Saint-Germanius dragged the mare's head around as she descended, and her iron-shod feet once again drove the outlaw back, swiping ineff'ectively at her legs with his weapon. Saint-Germanius tossed his sword into his left hand and slammed the outlaw's sword aside with his own blade before hacking into his ribs, pulling the mare back as the man staggered, bleeding, making a last try to hurt him.

"Forward!" Ranegonda shouted. "There are more behind us!"

Saint-Germanius gave the mare her head and clapped his heels to her, swaying as she bounded ahead, leaping the stream and racing some distance as he clung to her neck, hearing the frantic hoofbeats of Ranegonda's dun behind him.

Only when they were more than a safe distance away from the ambush did Saint-Germanius signal Ranegonda to slow her horse even as he pulled the chestnut mare to a trot, and then a walk. Both horses

Better in the Dark HI

were flecked with foam and their coats dark with sweat; they gulped air and carried their heads low as they went on.

"How many were there, could you tell?" Saint-Germanius asked when they were further on. Although he was breathing quickly, no sweat was on his face.

"I counted five," she said, wanting to conceal her fear.

"Dangerous odds," said Saint-Germanius, looking back at her, he read her set expression, and told her kindly. "Do not castigate yourself; there is no shame in being frightened, Ranegonda. Only fools and madmen have no fear. The shame is in allowing the fear to keep you from acting."

"We ran," she said, her voice as pinched as her face.

"Be grateful that we could," he said. "What use would it have been to remain and risk dying?"

"We're mounted, they're not," she said defiantly, her chin coming up. "There were only five more."

"That you could see," Saint-Germanius reminded her. "If the trees concealed a dozen more, what then?" He gave his attention to the road ahead. "And they may well be waiting for us on our return. Is there another way we could come?"

She shrugged. "If we had to we could ride the shore, I suppose. The tide will be low in the afternoon." She hesitated. "We would have to go quickly."

"Because of the tide?" he asked.

"Among other things," she replied.

"Outlaws?" He wiped the blade of his sword at last and returned it to the scabbard hung on his saddle.

"Sometimes." She faltered. "And the old gods. There are two coves where the old gods are honored."

"And we would not be welcomed," he guessed aloud.

"No." She indicated a hollowed tree not far ahead of them. "Look. In the tree. There are favors tied to the branches. The carved ox and the little stone man? you see them? and the others? Those are offerings for the old gods. To get the things the White Christ does not give."

Saint-Germanius noticed a number of small objects, most of them looking like toys, each secured to the tree with red yarn; some of it was badly faded. He pulled his mare to a stop and looked at the little images, some of them readily understandable, some obscure. "Is the color so important?"

"Yes," said Ranegonda, and continued reluctantly as she brought

her dun to a halt. "And the tree, as well. It is hollow so that an old god will live in it."

"And the coves along the shore also provide a place for old gods to live? Offer them a haven of sorts?" asked Saint-Germanius, wry amusement in his face, and an old sadness. "Those who come here—they must be very devoted or very desperate to venture so far into the forest to leave these tokens."

"No one would dare to stop anyone coming here. Not even the outlaws. They have to live in the forest, where the old gods are still strong. The White Christ rules in Heaven, not this forest." Ranegonda Signed herself.

"The same is true of the shore," guessed Saint-Germanius.

"Yes." Ranegonda stared at the tree a little longer, then shook off the odd fascination of the place. "Come. We must not stay here."

This time he held back so that she could lead the rest of the way to the edge of the forest. As they emerged from the trees they could see the high wooden walls of the monastery, and Ranegonda motioned to Saint-Germanius to ride beside her.

"Will your brother mind that you have only one man to guard you?" he asked as they set their horses at the trot again. It was nearing mid-day and the bright sunlight made the open and marshy land where the monastery's flock of goats grazed seem preternaturally green.

"He may, or he may not," she said doubtfully. "He and I have not spoken since the autumn, and I do not know ... I do not know how heavily his sins weigh on him."

Saint-Germanius could feel her increasing misgivings as they approached the stockaded settlement, and he did his best to find a way to provide her a mainstay against them. "Whatever the state of his soul, remember that you are the one he has chosen to represent him in the world; he must have a good opinion of your judgment or he would not have put you in his place." He let her have a little time to consider this, then added, "Leosan Fortress could not have a better Gerefa."

She glanced over at him. "Do you think so?" she asked wistfully. "And what do you know of it?"

His dark eyes held distant pain but his answer was direct. "Because my father was a King, until his enemies over-ran his country. I was at his side until I was thirty-two. I know capable rule when I see it."

There was the sound of chanting on the wind now, the monks of the Matins Choir praising the White Christ and the Angel of the Resurrection in strophic cadences.

"And you are now a merchant," she said, baffled by such a change in fortune. "How could you accept such a change?"

I

Better in the Dark 113

"I am more alchemist than merchant; I've told you that," he reminded her as they drew up at the gate of the Monastery of the Holy Cross. "You know change, transformation, is the work of alchemists."

"Yes." She glanced over at him nervously, as if his remarks had been intended to rebuke her. "I should have thanked you before now. For saving those men. And for trying to save Njorberhta and her infant. My brother . . . will be grateful."

"You hope," he added for her, and got out of the saddle, holding the mare's reins in one hand. "Is there a place to stable the horses while you speak with your brother?"

"No. You will have to remain with them." She realized how harsh this seemed. "You can lead them to the grass and let them eat."

"All right," he said, taking the reins of her dun gelding as she started to dismount. Before she put her weak ankle down, he stepped up behind her and held her while she steadied herself, saying nothing. The horses pressed them close.

Then she shoved her dun away and turned to face him. "You ... it wasn't necessary."

"I was pleased to do it," he said quietly.

She looked directly at him, staring with bafflement into his eyes. "Why do you bother? What in your oath demands this of you?"

Swiftly, lightly, he kissed the corner of her mouth, then stepped back from her, pushing the mare over as he did. "Nothing demands it." He nodded once in the direction of the door. "Go on. See your brother."

She turned quickly and started away from him as if lost. She made herself stop and put her mind on her errand here and the report her brother was expecting.

Brother Ehren was warder for the day, and he squinted at Rane-gonda as if she were in a disguise and he determined to penetrate it. "May God and the White Christ bless you," he said.

Ranegonda Signed herself. "Praise Them," she said dutifully before adding, "I am Ranegonda, sister of Brother Giselberht, Gerefa of Leosan Fortress."

"Brother Giselberht is at personal prayers," said Brother Ehren.

"I humbly ask you to inform him I have come." She knew the monk would be disgusted by her insistence, and she did what she could to lessen the offense she had given. "I am here to do my duty to my brother and my fortress as my vow demands. I bring him information he must have; it was his stated order that I should do so when he left the world for your monastery. I pray you will permit me to uphold my vow as you uphold yours."

"So," said Brother Ehren. "I will speak to him, and to Brother

Haganrih, who will decide if you are to be permitted to deliver your message."

She knew better than to sigh or show any sign of exasperation, for the monk would only see this as a lack of respect for the monastery; she bowed her head, Signed herself, and said, "Glory to the White Christ. I will be with my escort, who is tending our horses." She pointed toward the edge of the grass where Saint-Germanius stood with the chestnut and dun.

"If you are to be admitted, someone will come to fetch you," said Brother Ehren with an air of condescension.

Ranegonda did not trust herself to speak again; she backed away from the warder's post, then turned and walked toward Saint-Germanius, proud that she did not limp.

"Is everything well?" asked Saint-Germanius as Ranegonda approached, taking care to speak clearly in case they were being overheard.

"Just the ordinary delays, I suppose," she answered, shading her eyes to look at the walls of the monastery. "The Rule here is very strict."

"So it would appear," said Saint-Germanius as he watched the two horses crop grass. "Will you have to wait long?"

"I don't know," she said, and bent to pick one of the new wildflowers growing in the long spring grass. "There's water on the far side of the walls. The horses will want some."

"Yes; I'll take care of it." His gaze flicked toward the gate of the monastery, then back to the horses. He accepted the silence that fell without question.

"What you said—that you are a King's son. Is that true?" She asked it in a burst, as if she was afraid to stop even for a breath.

"It is true," he answered, looking steadily at her.

"And you were thirty-two when the Kingdom was conquered?" She was not so hasty this time but still the words were rapid.

"Yes."

"You were thirty-two and your father still ahve," she persisted.

"Those of my blood are long-lived," he said, although his father had not been of his blood, which was the blood of their god.

She took a long preparatory breath before she asked, "Then how old are you now? You cannot be much more than that, not with your hair dark and having all your teeth."

"I am older than thirty-two," he said quietly, not adding that his years could be measured in many centuries.

She shut her mouth, pressing her lips together; her grey eyes were somber. "I had no intention of—"

He shook his head. "You have no reason to apologize, Ranegonda." He reached out and brushed a tendril of wheat-colored hair back from her face. "If I told you my age, I fear you would not believe me." More than that, he reminded himself inwardly, he was apprehensive about what she might do if she did believe him.

Something in the way he spoke silenced her and she wandered away from him along the monastery wall, then came back, tossing the flower away as she did. "Why did you ask the cooks for moldy bread?"

This was safer ground for both of them, and he said, "It is part of the remedy I made in the athanor."

"Moldy bread? What good is that?" She was relieved to be incredulous over so minor a thing.

"It has virtues. If you are pleased that your men recovered, it is in part due to that moldy bread." This time he could not look away from her, though he dreaded the possibility of her disgust or wrath. "Does that cause you—"

"If it made them well again, then I have nothing against it." She looked toward the gate again, her nervousness returning. "When I come here, it is always the same. I hate it when they delay me seeing Giselberht. I fear that it means he has finally put the world completely behind him. It is a failing in me to be so impatient, but I hate it."

"It is also a failing in him, that he requires you to wait," said Saint-Germanius, his voice soft so that anyone listening from beyond the walls could not hear.

She looked at him narrowly. "You are bewildering."

"Why?" Saint-Germanius asked her in genuine puzzlement.

"Because you are . . . you are ..." She could not find the words; she paced a short distance down the wall, then came back to him once more. "I am going to the gate."

Saint-Germanius's dark eyes lingered on her. "As you wish." He walked a few steps further into the grass to allow the horses to extend their grazing.

Before she went, she stood for an instant longer, watching him, searching for something she could not name. More than his foreignness he was an enigma to her, which made him as enthralling as he was strange to her; it was hard to look away, or to put him from her mind. But she made herself do both, thinking of the purpose of her visit and the duty she owed her brother and the people of Leosan Fortress. With a single shake of her head, she hurried toward the entrance to the monastery, trying to ignore her limp.

Brother Giselberht stood in the open gate, his hands tucked into the

sleeves of his habit. He averted his gaze as she stopped to raise her skirt to her knees. "It is not fitting that you should do that now."

"Because you are a monk?" she said. "You are my brother, as well, and you are still my Gerefa." She came nearer, wanting to see how he had come through the winter. He seemed too pale to her, and she told herself it was from fasting and long hours of praying, but could not entirely believe it. "How are you, Brother Giselberht?"

"I am gaining strength," he answered as he retreated into the monastery, going as far as the line of white stones that marked the limit to where the worldly could come. "God tested me in the winter, during the long snows, by permitting me to take a fever." He Signed himself, and watched critically as she did the same. "I was in its grips for many days when only the prayers of my Brothers and the White Christ sustained me.

Although she knew it was improper, she reached out a hand to him in comfort. "Giselberht," she said. "But you are well now?"

"I am improved, thanks be to God," he said. "I have suffered, which is fitting for my sins, and I have been given the triumph of the White Christ." His grey eyes burned as if the fever still possessed him. "I saw the omens of fever and I did not heed them in time. For this my suffering was longer."

"Was there much sickness at the monastery?" She asked with reserve, for it was possible that Brother Haganrih had forbade his monks to speak of such things.

"Nine Brothers were ill. Many were weakened by the early cold." He made an impatient gesture. "We are in the hands of the White Christ. It is not right to question Him and His Wisdom." With an air of great resignation, he asked, "What did winter bring to Leosan Fortress?"

She stood straight to answer him, giving her report in the same manner that Amalric had given his to her. "I am saddened to have to tell you that we have lost six men, three women, three children, two horses, a goat, and a sheep. The goat and the sheep were stolen by outlaws who attacked the fortress and its village; we lost men in the defense. We had several wounded to care for, and we were fortunate that the stranger we found on the beach last autumn has some skill in treating the wounded. Without his help I fear we would have lost more."

"We will pray for the souls of those who died," said Brother Giselberht, Signing himself before clasping his hands.

She sensed that he was more concerned with the dead than the living, but she persevered. "Our stores are very low, and although spring planting is under way, there are not as many lambs or kids in the fields,

which bodes ill for the summer. The harvest will need to be bountiful and the ewes will have to drop thriving lambs if next winter is not to be hungry. Or the King will have to requisition us more supplies." She coughed delicately. "We are building the stockade the King has ordered, but the men have no time to till, for they are forever cutting trees. We are to have more men transferred to the fortress before the end of summer, though they would be of more use now. The women are working the fields now, tending to the planting, and the wives of the soldiers in the fortress have had to increase their spinning and weaving."

"It is well that all work, for that is part of service to the White Christ," said Brother Giselberht. He paused. "My wife: does she set an example?"

"Yes, she does," said Ranegonda, more sharply than she had intended. "Not a very laudable one." Again she paused, and went on with as much tact as she could. "Oh, she is industrious at her spinning, and her cloth is good. But she has set herself to the ways of courtesy. Two days since the son of Pranz Balduin, a young man named Berengar, came to the fortress. He intends to stay for a month a least, and brought coins to buy his welcome."

Brother Giselberht scowled. "Do you say he came to see my wife?"

"He claims they are old friends. I have put him in the seaward tower, just below the light room. Saint-Germanius still quarters in that tower as well, and so there are two guards on Berengar." She showed him up-turned palms. "What else can I do? He is the son of a Pranz, and his father . . ."

After a short, inconclusive silence. Brother Giselberht said, "As vassal to King Otto, the son of Pranz Balduin must be accorded a courteous welcome. To do otherwise would bring disgrace to the fortress and our family." He glared at Ranegonda. "What else have you done?"

"Nothing. I have made certain they are not private together, Berengar and Pentacoste. But what more can I do?" She stared at him, finding his remote anger made him more unfamiliar than the foreigner who held her horse outside the walls.

"You are not to permit her to compromise herself. I have had to drown one wife; I will not drown another." His voice had risen and his face looked more like a mask for a priest of the old gods than a human countenance. "Give what courtesy you must, but let there be no whisper of sin."

"How?" she asked. "I have done as much as I can without open offense. What more do you expect me to do? Giselberht! There are things you must know of, things you must act upon."

He gave her no answer, striding across the line of white stones, away from her toward the ambulatory. He stopped once and called back to her, "Tell me in a month what has transpired. Until then, leave me to pray. You have torn me from my contemplation of the White Christ, and I must be given time to restore my devotion before I can speak with you again. If you come before a month, the warder-Brother will deny me to you."

"But Giselberht, there are other matters we must discuss," she cried out, resisting the urge to go after him, for only those sworn to the monastery were permitted to cross the line of white stones separating the monks from the worldly.

"Manage as you must. You are Gerefa. I will not have the world intrude on this place." He increased his stride and disappeared around the corner of the first log building.

Ranegonda stared after him. He had not inquired about who had been injured or killed. She had not been able to discuss Captain Mey-rih's replacement. He had given her no orders regarding planting in the village or cutting in the forest or additional defenses to use against the outlaw bands. There had been no chance to tell him of Saint-Ger-manius's offer to establish hives in the village, or to ask her brother to meet the foreigner. She stood for a short while, waiting for her brother to reappear. All she saw were monks making their way along the ambulatory. She sighed once. Signed herself, and went out of the Monastery of the Holy Cross.

Saint-Germanius had moved a little farther into the grass, no frown of impatience to darken his brow. As Ranegonda approached he looked up. "The horses have been watered, Gerefa," he said in a voice intended to be overheard.

"Tighten their girths," she said curtly, reaching out for the dun's reins.

"We are leaving?" he asked in some surprise as he swung her iron stirrup back to reach the buckle of the girth.

"Yes. My brother has obligations to the White Christ he must fulfill." She grabbed the high pommel and pulled herself into the saddle as soon as Saint-Germanius stepped back.

"Ah," said Saint-Germanius, tightening the girth on the chestnut's saddle before mounting. "Do we ride along the beach, then?"

"We might as well," she answered, pulhng the dun around toward the path leading toward the shore. "There is no reason to fight the outlaws twice in one day."

"No, there is not," he agreed, and urged the chestnut ahead of her dun to give her proper escort.

They turned to the west once they reached the beach, letting the horses trot side-by-side in the wet sand. Ranegonda sat erect in her saddle, her eyes directed ahead, her hands clenched on the reins; Saint-Germanius was content to put some distance between them and the monastery before he risked speaking to her.

"You and your brother disagreed?" he asked as they drew abreast of a ittle cove where painted pieces of driftwood marked a place where the old gods were honored.

"We hardly had time to do that." Her words were sharp.

Saint-Germanius knew better than to offer her any soft phrases of consolation. "That was ill-done of him; he ought to permit you to discharge your duty whether it suits his Hours or not."

She looked at him, her cheeks red, her lips white; for an instant she prepared to defend her brother against her very complaint of him. Then she smiled ruefully. "You have the right of it. I am vexed with him and disgusted with myself because I am vexed with him."

They went on further in silence. Then he said, "If he gave you no instruction, then you must discharge your office as best you can according to your judgment."

"I suppose so," she answered, her manner less irate than before. "I know my duty, at least."

Saint-Germanius noticed another of the httle beach hollows, and the tokens left there for the gods. He frowned. "Tell me, Ranegonda," he said as if he were talking about the color of his chanise, "the cove where you found me, was that an old god's cove?"

Color mounted in her face for no reason she could recognize. "Yes," she said at last.

"There were no tokens there," he said uncertainly, for his memory of the place was dim.

"No," she said before she urged her dun into the canter. "They washed away when you came."

Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Avlona to Hrotiger in Rome, carried by messenger, in passage for thirty-four days.

To my old friend who serves my greatest friend, my greetings at the Vernal Equinox.

No, I assure you he is not dead, Rogerian. I would have known it if it had happened, as I have known when those of my blood who were of my making died the true death. He has been in some distress, of that much I am certain, but no more than that, at least not recently. He is not entirely recovered; I sense that his strength is less than it can be, and he

is not able to seek what he most ardently needs, so he cannot be wholly restored. It is saddening to me that were I with him, that is the one thing I could not ojfer him. But it saddens me, too, that I could not have it of him, either. Such is the fate of those of our blood.

Do not be offended that I keep to the old Roman ways and call you Rogerian, as I always have. These new versions of old names make my jaws ache. Hrotiger is no sort of name for a man of your age to have. My bondsman Niklos Aulirios has fared better than most for his name has not been maimed by fashion, at least not so far.

I have purchased a pleasant villa here on the Dalmatian coast, and I would be overjoyed if Sanet' Germain would join me here for a year or two. He would be able to recover his strength once he found a willing companion, and I would have the pleasure of his company, and yours as well. I have always been delighted to share my house with Sanct' Germain, for although certain fulfillment has been lost to us. his steadfast friendship is a satisfaction I will always welcome.

The rumors are that more barbarians are coming to ravage poor old Rome again. I thought it prudent to get out of their path for a time. And to be candid, it pains me to see Rome assaulted. It has happened more than enough times already. So, when the invaders are gone I will come again and see what damage they have done to my villa this time. Should you decide that it might be best to remove from the city, you need only cross the Adriatic and I will accommodate you for your own sake as well as Sanct' Germain's.

I know I need not say this, but when you do eventually locate him, tell him that I am thoroughly annoyed with him for causing us such worry on his behalf. And tell him that I send him my devoted love.

With my fond remembrances, and the reassurance that wherever Sanct' Germain may be, he is there as alive as he ever was, I tender you my gratitude as well as these various invitations.

Olivia

8

Berengar set his kithre aside and beamed at Pentacoste as the rest of those in the Common Hall drummed their tankards on the table to show their appreciation. "Mine is no great skill, truly, only a modest gift," he said with a satisfaction that belied this denial. He was wearing

a wine-colored bliaut with embroidery at the neck over a yellow chanise, and his chausses were a deep shade of rust. On his right hand he wore two rings and on his left, three. He was the most richly dressed man the people of the fortress had ever seen within their walls, and the most courtly.

"It was a beautiful song," said Pentacoste with a languishing look that she made no effort to conceal or alter, though to show such an approval was beyond anything proper for a married woman to offer a man not her husband. "I liked the part about how Roland gave his pledge to Carl-le-Magne to achieve victory or die. 'I must always hold my duty sacred; / My obligation is my highest purpose, / And my life cheap in the balance: / Death is welcome if it vindicates my vow.' "

"It is very stirring, yes, and those lines in particular," Berengar agreed. "These tales of great heros are always reminders of what has been done by valiant men, and what we must strive to do ourselves."

"Imagine what a fine thing it must be, having someone die for you," said Pentacoste with unaccustomed eagerness. "To know that someone has died and rotted to keep you alive!"

There was an awkward silence in the Common Hall.

Then Maugde held up his maimed hand, the result of the fight with the outlaws, and said, "It makes this bearable, to know that others have had honorable wounds. It is heartening to hear these tales." He lifted his tankard. "To a fine singer."

Again there was the drumming of tankards, this time with a few additional hoots to give emphasis to their approval. The women slapped the table-tops with their hands in a strong, regular rhythm.

Near the half-open door, Ranegonda watched with dismay. She had spoken to Pentacoste that morning, asking her to conduct herself more correctly; at that time Pentacoste had blithely assured her she would do nothing to bring disgrace upon the fortress or her husband and now she flaunted Berengar's infatuation, all but announced her approval of the man's unstated rivalry with her absent husband, her behavior more fitting for a common trull than a Gerefa's wife.

"One more song, for me," Pentacoste pleaded prettily, her lovely eyes turned toward Berengar in what looked very like adoration.

"It is hardly fitting to take so much time for songs when the Hour for prayers approaches," said Berengar, pleased and flattered in spite of his proper response.

"I will pray for another song, then, and I will Hsten with devotion. Surely that would be acceptable?" Pentacoste looked around the room, as if seeking others to support her petition.

Ranegonda turned to Saint-Germanius, who stood beside her.

"Look at her. What am I to do about—" Her gesture finished her thought.

He regarded her with sympathy. "Anything you do will draw attention to her actions, not diminish their significance," he said quietly. "And Berengar may claim that taking a stance against Pentacoste offends him or impugns his honor. That would be more disruptive still."

"Yes," she said as she glanced out into the last of the afternoon sun. "But he is right. It is almost time for evening prayers. That's something." She had half-expected Brother Erchboge to arrive while Berengar was singing; she was grateful this had not occurred, for Brother Erchboge was not inclined to look tolerantly on such displays as the one Berengar made with his kithre.

"If you want to lessen the damage Pentacoste is causing, praise Berengar for his songs," Saint-Germanius suggested suddenly. "It will make Pentacoste's attentions less obvious."

She glanced at him with a slight frown, then smiled as she realized what Saint-Germanius was suggesting. "Very subtle," she approved, and went to the center of the Common Hall. "We are all grateful to you, Berengar, son of Pranz Balduin, for giving us so much delight. We here at Leosan Fortress have rarely been provided an opportunity to hear music as fine as yours. If your songs are any standard for judgment, life at the great courts must be very pleasant indeed." She raised her skirts to her calves to show respect for his singing.

"How kind you are to your guest," said Berengar, doing his utmost to be as courteous as he could in this rough setting.

Pentacoste gave Ranegonda a swift, condemning glare, then favored Berengar with a melting smile. "Why should she not be kind? We are the ones who are honored by your presence. You are in company beneath your place." She rose from the bench in a single, graceful motion. "You show your excellence in many ways, and this is not the least of them, that you will sing of valor and devotion to these rough soldiers in this remote fortress."

Observing from the door, Saint-Germanius had to admit Pentacoste's ploy was neatly executed. He watched as Berengar reached for the hook hanging from the beam above and secured his kithre to it, a tacit promise that he would sing again the next day as well as a continuing challenge to Ranegonda. He noticed that Duart had stationed himself a few steps away, and remarked to him, "I must take it that music is rare at the fortress."

"Except when the soldiers are drunk," said Duart stiffly, "or Faxon plays his pipes for us."

"That is not the same kind of music, is it?" Saint-Germanius asked, refusing to be daunted by the monitor's uncompromising stance.

"Possibly not," Duart allowed, before bowing and starting to move away as the bustle in the Common Hall increased. His right hand was held at the small of his back, the fingers fixed in the sign to ward off the Evil Eye.

"Monitor," Saint-Germanius called after him, deliberately keeping his voice low, "I do not know why you distrust me, but I tell you that there is no reason for it."

Duart stopped and stood with his back very straight. Then, quite deliberately, he rounded on Saint-Germanius. "Isn't there? I have seen the omens, and I know what I know."

Saint-Germanius did not want to argue with Duart, least of all here where most of the people of the fortress would witness it. "The omens," he said carefully, "may not pertain to me."

"You are a stranger here," said Duart, and moved further away from him as if to avoid the possibility of contamination.

With Pentacoste beside him, Berengar was making his way toward the door, smiUng broadly and accepting the adulation of his audience as his due. He paused long enough to address Saint-Germanius. "Foreigner that you are, I'd wager you've heard some interesting songs in your travels; I certainly have." He intended to show his worldliness by this, and gestured as if to indicate that he, too, had been to distant places. "Wouldn't you say that the world has many beautiful songs in it?"

"Yes," said Saint-Germanius, and added with deliberate cordiality, "if you will let me use your kithre sometime, I will be pleased to sing a few of them, and teach them to you if they are acceptable to you."

This was not the response Berengar had anticipated, and he was disgruntled by it. "Of course," he said lamely, trying to recover his position of preeminence without being drawn into a contest with the dark-clad foreigner. "It is always worthwhile to learn new songs. There are many who would not be willing to share what they know with a stranger, as I must be to you, since you are foreign."

Saint-Germanius bowed with just enough deference to show respect for Berengar's rank. "I will be at your service whenever you like."

"How good of you to . . ." He moved by without finishing, making sure that Pentacoste was near enough to demand his attention.

When they were out of the Common Hall, Saint-Germanius drew Ranegonda aside. "Tell me, why are you so apprehensive? This fancy Pranz's son is not the true reason for your distress: what is it?" He had

been sensing her restiveness since Berengar arrived, and over the last few days there had been a marked increase in her anxiety.

Ordinarily she would not have answered his question, or claimed that he was mistaken, but there was something in his dark eyes that compelled her to answer. "Margerefa Oelrih is supposed to arrive here very soon. I expect him to arrive any day; I have tried to prepare for his coming for more than a week. He is bringing suppHes we need, and more men to reinforce us. He will inspect the fortress and give his report to King Otto.''

The air smelled of the sea and fresh sawdust and the green of growing things; now that the sun was low it was cool enough to make several of the people in the MarshaHng Court wish for a mantel or the lighter casula to ward off the chill of coming night. In the Marshaling Court a few of the younger soldiers had just finished practicing fighting with blunted spears; Captain Meyrih shouted instructions to them although they were now nothing more than moving shadows to him.

"You have no reason to be distressed about that," Saint-Germanius told her with conviction. "Everyone knows that you have managed Leosan Fortress as well or better than your brother could.''

Color mounted in her face but her frown did not fade. "There is more to it than I've— You recall I told you that Margerefa Oelrih arranged the match between Giselberht and Pentacoste?" When he nodded, she went on. "He wanted her for himself but his father would not approve the match because of the reputation of Pentacoste's father. Dux Pol is debauched, you see, and for some this makes his children—" She broke off, gave herself a quick shake, and continued. "But it was a good alliance, and Margerefa Oelrih chose my brother because we would benefit from the marriage."

"And Margerefa Oelrih never supposed that there would be another man pursuing Pentacoste, not out here," said Saint-Germanius, thinking of the many times he had seen arranged marriages come to grief.

"He has not said so. He rarely says anything about Pentacoste; it wouldn't be fitting." Ranegonda glanced in the direction of the landward tower, where Pentacoste had taken her ladies, leaving Berengar to fend for himself among the men-at-arms. "But I have suspected that was the case. So did my brother before he retired from the world."

The wooden horn sounded for the change of guards on the parapet; in the Marshaling Court there was a flurry of activity as those about to go on duty gathered their weapons and hurried up the narrow stairs. Reginhart stood at the top, waiting to be relieved, four men behind him.

"You're anticipating trouble between the Margerefa and the Pranz's

son, is that it?" Saint-Germanius asked, then saw that Brother Erch-boge was making his way toward the front of the chapel, prepared to begin evening prayers, signaHng to all to follow him.

Ranegonda watched the monk, and regretfully moved away from Saint-Germanius; as Gerefa it was her duty to be present before the prayers could begin. "Perhaps later?" she said over her shoulder.

"I am at your service, Gerefa," said Saint-Germanius, watching her walk away from him. When most of the people of the fortress had reached the chapel, he went to his workroom in the seaward tower.

There were ten oil lamps hanging from the massive beams in the low ceiling, and Saint-Germanius lit each of them in turn, using flint-and-steel for a spark. The chamber was almost to his satisfaction now, given where he was and the state of his supplies. He longed for the fine laboratory at Villa Ragoczy in Rome, and thought with a mixture of nostalgia and revulsion of the house he had built in the city of Toledo not quite two centuries ago. At least, he thought as he examined the athanor, the fortress had a good supply of moldy bread to give him; that was a start. There would be other compounds he could make later, when he had gathered more materials. He gave a short sigh; at times like this he could not shake off his melancholy for the world that had flourished a millennium before and was now relegated to tales of magic, peopled by figures made unrecognizable by legend as the people Saint-Germanius had known.

Some considerable time later he left the chamber, walking out into the Marshaling Court; overhead the moon glowed in the sky and limned the darkness below, not yet quite full. On the ramparts ahead of him, Saint-Germanius could see Faxon and Osbern standing together above the slaves' quarters, watching the village and the forest beyond. He walked toward the stairs and paused at the foot, calling up, "Men-at-arms."

Faxon looked down, one hand hefting his spear. "Saint-Germanius. What do you want?"

"I'd Hke to have a walk along the battlements, if you would not mind," said Saint-Germanius as genially as he could. "I will try not to get in your way."

"It is very late," said Faxon, with a glance toward Osbern. "You choose a strange hour for your walk."

"Regrettably, I do not often sleep the night through," said Saint-Germanius, starting up the stairs. "I hoped that a view of the sea and some little exercise might tire me. My meditations have not helped, and it is not the hour to continue with my studies." Only part of this was true, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that this was not

outright prevarication; those of his blood rarely needed more than a short nap except when removed from their native earth or when famished.

Faxon moved his spear aside. "Come ahead," he said, mildly suspicious. "But remember, these are guarded ramparts. You will have to identify yourself to each of the men on watch."

"I will be pleased to do it," said Saint-Germanius, his thoughts ranging back to the days when he had first left Egypt and the Temple of Imhotep for his home, and had found himself among strangers on his native earth. Then it had caused him anguish to have to move among them as an interloper. But that was more than two thousand years ago and over the centuries he had become accustomed to abiding by the restraints placed on foreigners.

"Next along is Culfre, and then Kynr. Call out your name as you near them," said Faxon, unbending a little. "They will not harm you if you speak to them first." He stepped aside so that there was room on the narrow parapet for Saint-Germanius to pass him. 'Tf you use these stairs to descend, I will escort you down. If you use the seaward stairs, then it must be Ewarht."

"Fine," said Saint-Germanius, and strolled away to the western end of the walls, whistling softly as he went. He identified himself to Culfre, and stopped not far away from him to watch the night. To his right the Baltic sighed its waves onto the sands, to his left the small village huddled at the foot of the promontory, the thatch-roofed log houses closed and silent. Straight ahead he could see the line of the forest and the expanse of sand almost as pale as snow in the moonlight, leading to the sea. It was comforting to stare at the place where the trees gave way to the beach.

A short while later, he became aware of a movement at the edge of the trees, and then, as he watched with suddenly keen interest, a solitary figure moved onto the sands, moving furtively toward one of the small coves a short distance to the west of the fortress. Saint-Germanius leaned forward, his dark, intent eyes piercing the darkness. Someone from the village, he thought, slipping through the unfinished stockade to leave an offering for the old gods. He wished the mantel-shrouded person would turn so that he might recognize who it was.

"What is it?" Culfre asked as he came up beside Saint-Germanius, having noticed his sudden attentiveness. "Is anything wrong?"

Saint-Germanius glanced at the man-at-arms. "I thought I saw movement by the trees," he answered.

"An animal?" asked Culfre.

"I do not think so," said Saint-Germanius, masking his certainty with a frown as if he could not see any better than Culfre could.

"How can you tell? The woods are a long way from here and . . ." His words trailed off as he moved his hand to indicate the night.

"I noticed some . . . something." He paused, pointing to the place he had first seen the unknown person leave the cover of the trees. "It was just there. I was afraid it might be another band of outlaws seeking to attack the village again, or perhaps Danes coming to take prisoners."

Culfre Signed himself. "Surely that won't happen," he said, sounding very uncertain. He peered into the darkness again. "I can't see anything out there."

Saint-Germanius's night vision was much better than most, but he made no boast of it now. "I may have been mistaken."

"Well," Culfre said, willing to make a few allowances for the foreigner, "it is better that you make mention of it and have it be nothing than that you overlook something that could mean danger to all of us."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Saint-Germanius, once again staring out toward the line of the trees. "There would appear to be no hazard just now."

"If you see anything you believe is important, you tell me. I won't laugh at you and I won't ignore you." He made an encouraging gesture to Saint-Germanius. "I'll even tell the Gerefa that you've been a help to us."

"You are very kind," said Saint-Germanius, meaning it; few of the men-at-arms treated him with more than minimal respect and avoided him when possible.

"It would be a good thing if more of those within these walls cared for what transpires around us as you do. Captain Amalric himself has remarked on how careful you are," said Culfre with some heat. "It is admirable, especially in a foreigner. Too many of our own people suppose that we are safe because our walls are stone."

"But you do not think so," said Saint-Germanius, interested in what Culfre was saying, for it was untypical of most of those living at Leosan Fortress. "Is it the outlaws you fear? Danes? Or is it something Captain Amalric has taught you?"

"Every one of those things are part of my thoughts, for the omens are dangerous, very dangerous," said Culfre with a portentous glare. "And it is more than omens. This place is getting larger, and that means that it will be noticed. Whether it is pirates at sea or outlaws on land, or the Danes, looking for plunder, the larger this fortress and its village become, the more others will wish to take what we have, because they

know we have it." He looked out in the same direction Saint-Ger-manius had. "And that's why I don't laugh when you tell me you've seen something."

"You're a very sensible man, Culfre; that surprises me," said Saint-Germanius, thinking that this youth displayed the kind of judgment he would have expected a soldier to possess hundreds of years ago. It was rare to find such prudence in these times, or in such a place as Leosan Fortress.

"Captain Amalric has been teaching me, as you say. He says he wants a lieutenant and he has said I am the best of the lot. I want to be worthy of the honor he has given me, taking me as his student." His naive pride increased. "I look forward to aiding him. I wish to be prepared to act."

"It would appear Captain Amalric shows good judgment in his choice of pupil," said Saint-Germanius.

"It is my hope that it will be so," said Culfre, and added, "It is useful that my wife is skilled with herbs. Between us, we can be of value to everyone here."