She stared at him as if he had run mad. "But—"

"You may do less through the summer, or you may do less for the rest of your Hfe," he said firmly. "Better to rest for the summer and be strong before winter; if you do not you could lose the strength in your arm."

For a moment she was again silent. "I am ready to stand now," she announced. "But you must be certain I do not fall."

"Of course." It was not difficult to get her to her feet, and he stood

next to her while she mastered the dizziness that came over her. "As soon as you wish I will send for Duart. And Genovefe as well if you need her. Duart can escort you back to your house in the village when you are ready."

She shook her head. '1 want to come with you to find him. I have to know if I can walk on my own." She straightened up as best she could, her features very white. "I will be myself shortly."

Privately he doubted that, but he said to her, "Why not save your strength? The way from the fortress to the village is steep. You will need to prepare yourself to walk down it." He took her unharmed hand in his and led her a few steps. "As you can tell, it is a difficult thing to walk without help."

"I can't balance," she complained, gripping his hand tightly.

He brought her to his trestle table and offered his stool. "Sit here and sit with the table at your back. It will hold you up."

She accepted his offer quickly, but again protested when he suggested he leave her to fetch Duart. "I wish to come with you. If I remain here my husband would have reason to complain of me."

"With a broken bone and bruises on your face?" asked Saint-Ger-manius.

"He could assume many things from it." She lowered her eyes and then stared at him. "If you were not a foreigner . . ."

He understood her meaning: she was under more suspicion because he was not one of the people of the fortress or the village. "We will go to find Duart together. Shortly."

"Yes," she said, and strove to master her weakness; she closed her eyes and her face grew taut. In a bit she said, "It is just that I have been hurt, very just; I will not ask the White Christ for vengeance. What I have suffered I have brought upon myself. I was entrusted with the task of waiting upon the Gerefa's wife and I failed to serve her. My husband and I could be cast out from the village for that, and at a time when madmen are pillaging."

"You will not be cast out," said Saint-Germanius with the intention of easing Osyth's mind. "Ranegonda will not allow it."

"She can do nothing if her brother does not permit it." She sighed. "If Genovefe had been in the cloth room, perhaps—"

Saint-Germanius interrupted her. "You cannot be hampered by what could have happened." He regarded her curiously, and continued. "You tell me you cannot remember what happened; there is no reason to concern yourself with everything that did not happen, as well." His wry half-smile softened his words.

Osyth flushed deeply. "Pentacoste fought me. She was ruining the

loom and I tried to stop her." Now that she had said it, she put her hand to her mouth.

"So you do remember," said Saint-Germanius without making his observation an accusation.

"Just now. It came back in a rush. She was furious." Osyth paled. "I have never seen a woman so angry." She made another attempt to Sign herself.

"Perhaps I had better find Genovefe for you," said Saint-Germanius.

But Osyth stopped him before he could move. "No. No. The omen is terrible already. Genovefe must not know of it." She was becoming agitated, her eyes moving quickly because her body could not. "If I were of the fortress, it might be different, but Genovefe would not permit me to speak against the Gerefa's wife, not as a village woman."

As irrational as these distinctions seemed to him, Saint-Germanius knew that they had great significance to the people who lived here and they were obligated to live by them. "Very well," he said after a short, thoughtful moment. "But in turn I ask you to tell the Gerefa what you remember. She deserves to know so that the wrong people will not be punished."

Osyth gave this careful consideration. "The Gerefa's wife will not like it."

"While that is unfortunate," said Saint-Germanius dryly, "it was her action that brought your injury about."

It took Osyth longer to answer this time, but at last she said, "Yes, all right. I will tell Gerefa Ranegonda what the Gerefa Giselberht's wife did."

Text of an introduction and safe-conduct dispatch issued to Hrotiger at Verden.

To the distinguished Margerefa Oelrih, resident of Hamburh and commissioner for King Otto, the greetings of Brother Brodicar, scribe to the Dux at Verden on this fourth day of May in the Year of the White Christ 939.

This is being carried by Hrotiger of Rome, bondsman to the Excellent Comites Saint-Germanius, Franzin Ragoczy. The man is of goodly years. His hair is cut in the Roman manner and is a light, dusty color. His eyes are blue and clear. His Germanian is passable, his Latin expert, and he knows Greek and Francian as well. He will identify himself with a phrase from The Story of Roland which he will speak in Francian. The phrase has special meaning to your House, and you will know him by it.

His reason for coming into Germania is the desire to visit Leosan

Fortress where he says his master, the Excellent Comites Saint-Ger-manius, is held for ransom which he wishes to pay. He has sufficient gold with him and other goods as well to satisfy the Gerefa at the fortress.

He describes the Excellent Comites thus: a man of somewhat more than middle height, appearing to be between thirty-five and forty, although he is, in fact, older than that. The Excellent Comites has dark hair that curls loosely, eyes that are of so dark a blue they appear black. The Excellent Comites is badly scarred at the middle of his body from a severe injury in youth.

You are requested to take this bondsman Hrotiger with you when you return to Leosan Fortress. Your men-at-arms will be augmented by the escort this Hrotiger has employed to bring him safely to his master; they will be no expense to you, and will offer compensation for the trouble of feeding them and finding appropriate places to sleep for a larger company.

Any Elder, Prior, Comites, Dux, or other vassal of King Otto is asked to render what aid he can to this Hrotiger, and to impede him in no way. If any should refuse him shelter or attempt to hold him, know that it will be an act of treason against King Otto and treated as such. It is the wish of King Otto that this bondsman be given the respect that is due his master, the Excellent Comites Saint-Germanius, and that his efforts to ransom the Excellent Comites be assisted in any way possible.

By the authority of Dux Giralht of Verden, and fixed with his seal.

Brother Brodicar

scribe to Dux Giralht

(his sign and seal)

12

"Brother Erchboge has again asked me to send you away from here," said Ranegonda with a look of frustration as she and Saint-Germanius rode down from Leosan Fortress side by side.

"For sorcery?" Saint-Germanius asked, doing his best to keep the irritation out of his voice; it was not she who annoyed him.

"Primarily," she answered, and shielded her eyes to look toward the walls of the stockade. "He cares nothing for the honor of the fortress; he claimed that it would be sinful to claim a ransom for you." She shook her head. "It is all Pentacoste's doing, saying that what she did in the cloth room was caused by your spells. Brother Erchboge believes her."

"So do many of the others," said Saint-Germanius as neutrally as he could.

"Because they hsten to her. Because they long for excitement." Rane-gonda pointed toward the forest. "Do you suppose they will come, those men who killed the outlaws? Do you believe Ormanrih is right to warn us? After all, the woodcutters didn't actually see anyone. They claim they heard men, but it could have been animals, or the men could be monks or other travelers."

The sun had not yet reached midheaven and already the day was growing warm for May; the fields below were at last showing the promise of a bountiful harvest to come, and in the orchard the apple trees were still in blossom. It seemed impossible that anything could disturb the pleasant tranquillity of the place.

"I think it is wise to be cautious, and if the woodcutters say that there are men coming in this direction, you had better be prepared to fight them. If they turn out to be humble travelers, they will welcome the protection you offer." They were just above the village now, where the fortress road turned.

"Yes. It would be best to be ready," she said, convincing herself, then glanced at him. "But if they have only clubs and cudgels, as we have been told, surely the stockade as it is will be proof against them. Why should we brace the walls a second time, and mount a bigger guard as well."

"And if they set fire to the stockade, what then?" Saint-Germanius asked, disliking himself for putting the question to her; he did not want to frighten her, or to give her reason to mistrust him.

She considered what he said. "We will have to keep buckets of water, and what barrels we can spare, to be sure they do not. A pity we haven't enough chain to install an opener on the stockade gate like the one you have made for the fortress." Then she indicated the crops. "The villagers will not like having to give up a day like this to watch their walls."

"They can watch their walls or lose them altogether, and their crops with them," Saint-Germanius warned her.

"Are you so certain of the danger?" They were passing between the first pair of houses now, and half-a-dozen young children shouted merrily at them before returning to their play. "Don't you suppose they will seek other prey?"

"You saw Karagern," Saint-Germanius answered. "What do you think?"

Her grey eyes were earnest as they met his. "The men who did that would stop at nothing."

"So it seems to me," he agreed as they stopped by the main house which served as a meeting place for all the villagers.

Udo and Keredih were waiting for her. They touched their foreheads as she dismounted and did their best not to look at Saint-Germanius at all. "We have gathered fourteen men to guard the stockade," Udo announced with pride.

"You will need more than that," Ranegonda told him. "Call all the men, and the women, too. And send your children to the fortress until the danger is over."

"There is work to be done here," protested Keredih. "The fields and the orchards need our care, and the livestock—"

"It will all wait," said Ranegonda, and started into the village house. "Summon everyone, at once. We must prepare ourselves, and quickly." She motioned to Saint-Germanius to follow her; when Udo Signed himself, she stopped and fixed her clear gaze on him. "Don't do that. You waste the White Christ's good-will when you invoke Him for no good reason."

Udo glared, not quite at Saint-Germanius. "He is a sorcerer."

"He is a foreigner, not a sorcerer. Only a fool would fear him for that, for he is our ally. If he were not here, none of our horses would have shoes, and your carpenters would be without metal bolts, and there would be no points for the lances and spears." She continued her way into the village house, not looking to see if the others were coming behind her.

Outside a loud, unmelodic bell was sounding.

"You did not need to do that," Saint-Germanius said to her softly. "But I thank you for it."

"This is no time to have them doubting you," she said. "It will add to their doubts of me."

"Unfortunately that may be true," said Saint-Germanius, and saw the first of the villagers hurry into the village house. He drew back from Ranegonda so that it would not appear that they were conspiring in any way.

The villagers were troubled at this summons, and many of them asked sharp questions as they took their places on the benches that provided seating for most of them. Ranegonda did not answer any of these but waited until Ormanrih himself arrived and acknowledged her. Then she went to the center of the village house. "Your woodcutters went out at dawn," she said, beginning to pace. "They came back quickly, for a number of them heard the sounds of men in the forest. Your headman reported that to me as soon as he learned of it, and I have come to you with my decision." She nodded toward Ormanrih.

"Your headman has your safety and preservation at heart. Therefore we have agreed that you must send your children to the fortress at once."

"Our children have tasks to do," one woman called out.

"The first one is to live long enough to grow up," Ranegonda countered. "If the village is attacked, they will be the most helpless."

"How can we know that will happen?" demanded another man.

"How can we know that it will not?" Ranegonda answered promptly. "You will have to put extra men on the stockade, day and night. Your work will be less, but the watch is necessary."

"You have men on the ramparts of the fortress. Why do we need men at the stockade when you already have men-at-arms on watch?" asked Nisse. "My pigs need my attention, not the stockade."

"The men-at-arms at the fortress," said Saint-Germanius, moving out of the shadows, "cannot see what is going on next to the stockade. To know that you must have someone directly above, in the little platform towers, looking down. Had the stockade been built further from the edge of the forest it would be possible to guard it from the fortress, but as it is you must do that." He did not stand too near Ranegonda, but he looked at her once, then gave his attention to the villagers. "The stockade was built to protect your fields and your crops and your livestock."

"Have him put a spell on it," shouted one of the villagers near the door.

Saint-Germanius paid no heed to this. "If you lose the fields and the animals and the orchards to these men, you could face starvation, though the fortress protects you. The men-at-arms know that."

Ormanrih came forward, addressing Ranegonda. "There are apprentice-aged boys who could be put on watch," he suggested.

"The oldest of them would be useful, but not the youngest," said Ranegonda. "The guards need sound judgment, and youngsters do not always have it. Guards need to be prudent." She faced Ormanrih. "I would not object if the women of the village kept watch."

Her proposal was met with outrage and shock. "What man would let his wife do such a thing?" cried Jennes. "What sort of husband would he be?"

"You trust the women to guard your children and cook your food," said Ranegonda persuasively. "Why do you not trust them to guard your walls? They would not have to fight, just watch."

"We strengthened the walls already," shouted Kalifranht, fear in his voice. "Isn't that enough? Why do we need more?"

"Possibly the strengthening is sufficient," said Ranegonda. "It may

be that the men who killed the outlaws may never come, nor the Danes. We could live here at peace for ten generations. But why take an unnecessary chance?" She was about to explain more when a loud alarm sounded from the fortress, and a moment later from the village.

There was quick-spreading fright among the villagers; many of them hurried out of the village house only to mill at the front of it, no one certain of what to do next.

Ranegonda acted quickly and effectively, striding out and raising her voice in order to be heard over the nervous babble. "If you have weapons, or tools that can be used as weapons, get them, then go to the walls. Women, fill all the buckets and barrels and pots with water and have them ready to put out fires. If the children have not been taken into the fortress, let Burhin's wife take them at once. Now!" Her order was sharp and clear, and most of the villagers obeyed her. Those few who faltered, she rallied. "The village needs your help. Get your weapons. Do you want the stockade to fall?" she demanded.

All but Kalifranht hurried off'; the woodcutter sat quivering, leaning against the side of the village house, his eyes set at a distant point only he could see.

Saint-Germanius approached him. "You cannot remain here," he said gently to the terrified man. "If there is to be fighting, you could be hurt." At Kalifranht's quiet, desperate cry, he said, "Go to the cutting shed. Busy yourself sharpening the blades of your axes. The other men will have use for them." He bent down and helped Kalifranht get to his feet; the woodcutter moved slowly, as if he were an invalid, unlike the rest of the villagers who rushed to their tasks.

Ranegonda had already mounted her horse and started down the road toward the gate. She was shouting to the men of the village, pointing to places on the wall where they would have to fight. She did not wait to see if anyone obeyed her, but kept moving, assigning the men as they hurried out with axes and mallets and cudgels. Some she ordered to bring ladders, pointing out where they should be placed.

From his post on the ramparts above the fortress gates, where he had been watching this sudden out-break of activity. Captain Amalric turned to Geraint. "Mount two dozen men. Now."

"That's most of our men," said Geraint.

"Get them," Captain Amalric said briskly. "I want the first dozen in the field as quickly as possible, the second dozen behind them."

Geraint hesitated. "We have not yet seen—"

"That's why we are going," he declared. "Sound the horn and get the men moving. Tell the slaves to start saddling while the men arm." As Geraint hastened to carry out these instructions Captain Amalric

swung around, shouting for Culfre. "Come here! Take my place. I leave you in charge." He was about to descend the narrow stairs when he asked, "Who is guarding the fire? Severic or Kynr?"

"Kynr," answered Culfre.

"I'll need him," he decided aloud. "I'll put Duart to the task," he announced. "See that he is relieved by mid-afternoon if we have not yet come back. Have Severic take charge of the second troop."

Culfre looked baffled. "But why? There cannot be much danger."

"We don't know that yet; we don't know who we are fighting, or how many of them there are," shouted Captain Amalric, and bolted down the stairs, watching as his men came running in answer to the blasts on the wooden horn.

"The children from the village are being brought up the road," said Brother Erchboge as Captain Amalric hurried around the bulk of the landward tower.

"Good. Put the wives to caring for them." He shouted to the slaves to open the gates wide. "And keep them open until we are back or until the village is destroyed and the enemy is advancing up the hill."

Brother Erchboge listened to this in horror, Signing himself for protection. "It is impossible," he said. "The gates must be closed as soon as you and your men leave."

Captain Amalric stopped and turned back toward the monk. "And how are we to retreat if the gates are closed? And who will defend you if we are outside?" He came directly up to Brother Erchboge without deference. "Close those gates and you make dead men of us."

"But—"

"And if you say that the White Christ demands sacrifices like His sacrifice, I will forget the habit you wear and order you onto a horse with the rest of the men, in case we need your prayers," said Captain Amalric decisively. "Remember, the Gerefa is in the village, not in the fortress."

Brother Erchboge was prepared to continue the dispute, but Captain Amalric shoved past him, yelling to Rupoerht and Osbern to don their heaums and broignes and bring swords and lances. He crossed the Marshaling Court quickly and entered the stable as the slaves who served as grooms were leading out the horses for the fight. "Heavy breastcollars for all of them, if we have enough," he shouted, then pulled the youngest of the slaves aside and said, "Go to my quarters and fetch my heaum and broigne. And my cuisses. I don't want my shins broken." The slave headed off at once, leaving Captain Amalric to go to the armory to bring out the new weapons Saint-Germanius had made for the fortress.

Four of the horses were saddled and bridled by the time the last of the children entered the fortress. Several of them were crying and many sought the comfort of the first friendly woman they saw.

Geraint was the first to be fully armed, and as he buckled his spurs on, he grumbled, "I gave your orders to Severic. He will begin mounting his men as soon as you have left with yours." He ran his finger along his forehead where the heaum rested. "I wish they had chosen a cooler day for this."

"I wish they had not come here at all," said Captain Amalric, hitching his thumb in the direction of the village. "Listen to that. They're trying to beat down the stockade." He indicated the headstrong bay in the Marshaling Court. "You take that one. I want the roan."

"Well enough," said Geraint, who liked high-mettled horses.

"Where is Berengar? And Pentacoste, for that matter?" Captain Amalric demanded, looking over his shoulder as if he expected to see them approaching.

"In the common hall, I think. Berengar was playing the kithre there a while ago," said Geraint. "The women were listening until the horn sounded."

Captain Amalric sighed. "A pity he is not a fighter." He saw Ewarht and Ulfrid hurrying up; Ewarht was buckling his scabbard onto his belt. "One of you tell the slaves to make sure the bathhouse is heated. The other find Duart and be certain he knows he is to guard the light. Get back here as fast as you can. We must be out of here quickly."

The two men rushed off on their assignments.

"It's getting worse," said Geraint after a moment of listening. "How many of them are there?"

"Too many," said Captain Amalric. "That's why we're going down to help." He hefted his lance and slung it into the sheath hanging on the right side of his saddle; the roan whickered in excitement.

Kynr arrived next, and Walderih came after with Chlodwic. "Regin-harht is almost ready," Chlodwic said, pulling on his studded leather gauntels.

"I don't like those," Captain Amalric remarked as he prepared to mount. "I don't like anything that impedes my hands."

"Better than getting knuckles smashed," said Chlodwic, looking at the horses. "Which one should I take?"

"The spotted one," said Captain Amalric. "And you, Walderih, take the light bay. Kynr can have the chestnut. Get mounted." He was more restive than his mount. "They need help in the village." He rode to the gate, shouting up to Culfre, "What do you see?"

"Trouble," answered his deputy. "The Gerefa is on the west side of the wall. There's something wrong."

"A breakthrough?" Captain Amalric asked; in the Marshaling Court another three men-at-arms had arrived, and Geraint was urging them on, saying something to Osbern as he came up, his heaum still in his hands.

"Not yet. There's another bad spot to the east of the gate." He shaded his eyes. "Ten, eleven villagers are there, some on ladders."

Captain Amalric bellowed toward the men in the Marshaling Court, "Hurry! On single line! Now!" He waited long enough for eight of the men to fall in behind him, and then he started through the gates, trusting that the rest of his men-at-arms would follow. "When we reach level ground!" he yelled over his shoulder. "The first half of you, go to the Gerefa. The other half, come with me. Severic and the rest will be along shortly."

Above them on the ramparts Culfre cheered.

Ranegonda's horse was sweating, trying to pull away from the section of the wall the attackers had set afire. She had drawn her sword and was holding it at the ready as she chided the villagers who faltered at the sight of the burning stockade. "They can't come through the fire any more than you can. Be ready and let none of them in."

Beside her Saint-Germanius held his horse facing the flames, an ax in his left hand; Kalifranht had given it to him in an attempt to make up for his cowardice. He pointed to the fortress. "Your men are coming," he said to Ranegonda.

She glanced away from the fire and was pleased at what she saw from the fortress. "Good. We need them." Then she rallied the villagers again, riding up to them and wheeling her horse as she wanted them to wheel. "Each of you prepare yourselves. You know what these creatures can do. It is up to you to join with my men to stop them."

From the other side of the stockade there came a sudden cry of dismay, and suddenly a huge section of the stockade wall collapsed inward, carrying one of the watchtowers with it, pinning five of the villagers beneath it and smashing part of the field planted in grain.

The men who surged in over the log wall were gaunt and frenzied, dressed in rags and animal skins. They were already swinging their clubs and striking at any defender they could reach. They made almost no noise, no shouting or cries, and if one of them fell none of his companions stopped to aid him.

"Wolves and Ravens!" Ranegonda exclaimed. "How many of them are there?"

Saint-Germanius's dark eyes were grim. "Sixty or more," he said, certain that the count was higher.

Udo Signed himself as he saw the first of the invading men rush forward. "What are they?" he asked in terrified awe.

"Madmen. They have the madness," Burhin declared, and turned away in horror. "Kahfranht is right. They are monsters."

"All the more reason to stop them," Ranegonda commanded, and spurred toward the attackers.

Saint-Germanius was with her, hefting the ax he carried. "By the look of them, there is no leader," he warned her.

"Then we must stop them all," she answered grimly, and gave a wolfish smile as she saw Captain Amalric and five of his men galloping toward her.

The villagers fell back as the men-at-arms surged in, ready to join the battle.

More of the attackers crowded through the break in the walls, their clubs at the ready, swinging at the horses' legs as the soldiers drew near, trampling the fields as they came.

"Keep back!" Saint-Germanius warned Ranegonda sharply. "If your horse goes down—"

She nodded to show she heard, and swung her sword at the nearest of the men, then shouted to the villagers, "Be ready!"

A few of the village men had fled, but most stood their ground, holding their tools ready to strike. Jennes had a long pruning hook in his hands, and thrust with it as if with a spear. Not far from him, Glevic held his stripping saw, the toothed blade toward the advancing men.

From the other side of the stockade where the fire was burning, a hideous shout went up as twenty of the invaders forced their way through the charred opening. Ewarht led the second group of soldiers toward them at the trot.

The silent, dire men were as inexorable as the tide, pushing into the fields relentlessly; as they bludgeoned their way forward they began to chant, "Bremen! Bremen! Bremen! Bremen!" as the villagers began to fall back, leaving the men-at-arms exposed to the assault of the clubs.

Two horses were down almost at once, legs shattered, and then skulls crushed by the attackers' clubs. Ulfrid escaped, leaping from the saddle before his mount could fall, but Osbern was not so fortunate; he was battered, screaming, to death.

Ranegonda saw this out of the corner of her eye and it horrified her. She started toward the attackers who were still drubbing Osbern's corpse, and felt her horse dragged back by a firm hand on the reins.

"It's useless, Gerefa," Saint-Germanius said with rough kindness. "There will be worse today, and you must get through it."

She stared at him, angry at first and then determined. "Yes. Oh, yes. I will exact wergeld from their bodies. Every one of them I can reach."

"Not at the cost of your own men, or yourself," he warned her, having seen that fighting rapture too many times; he recognized blood-lust in others from the capacity within himself, and it sickened him even in the midst of battle. "Master yourself, Ranegonda. Do not let the battle rule you."

For an instant she opposed him, and then something in her grey eyes changed and she gestured assent. "They need help, by the other wall."

He followed her, protecting her back.

At the burning section of stockade the ground was already growing soggy with blood. More than a dozen of the attackers had fallen, some still living but most of them dead. Eight of the villagers were down; Saint-Germanius recognized Nisse among them. More men were coming through the wall, but this was surely the last of them, for these men were maimed from other battles, unwanted at the front of the force.

A blast on the wooden horn announced that the second troop of men-at-arms had left the fortress.

The numbers of the attackers were sufficient to overwhelm many of the villagers, and some of them broke away, rushing toward their houses in the hope that they would be safe.

"Craven!" one of the men-at-arms cried, and was echoed by a few others who jeered more angrily.

The villagers continued to bolt.

"You must fight!" Ranegonda shouted after them, swinging her sword and spotting her horse with the blood of the man she had killed.

Beside her, Saint-Germanius called to her, "Fall back! Reform your lines. You can't hold them Uke this!"

She rounded on him. "They are killing my men!"

"And they will kill more of them if you don't reform your lines, where they can hold!" He turned suddenly in the saddle and swung his ax back-handed, the flat of the head striking one of the invading men in the center of his chest; he went down at once. "Ranegonda!"

The last of the invaders stopped at the bodies found and began to hack them apart with butchers' cleavers.

"All right," she decided. "Back. And all the men-at-arms will stand together."

From the ramparts Culfre watched with horror as the tremendous host of invaders continued their steady advance, leaving their dead

behind them with the broken bodies of villagers and men-at-arms alike.

"What are they doing?" demanded Brother Erchboge, who had dimbed up beside Culfre and was staring at the battle in consternation. "They must stand! Stand!"

"They can't, not in the field, not against so many," said Culfre as the men-at-arms fell back to the edge of the buildings, forming a Une facing the enemy. "They need Severic and his men."

"But it is dishonorable to turn!" Brother Erchboge insisted. "For the White Christ they must not be made to turn."

"Look what happened to Osbern and Rupoerht," said Culfre, pointing in turn to the two fallen men-at-arms. "And Chlodwic is unhorsed." He was about to order the monk to return to his chapel when he saw two more figures climbing the stairs to the parapets, and realized they were Berengar and Pentacoste.

The chanting men fanned out and moved steadily across the fields, only the men in the rear slowing to hack at the bodies of the defenders.

Ranegonda was at the center of her men-at-arms, feeling more restless and more exhausted than she could remember having been at any time in her life. Immediately behind her Severic had drawn his dozen men up in a line, weapons at the ready. Her arm ached from the weight of the sword and her eyes were burning. She sensed the others were as strained as she, but more trained for it. Sitting erect in the saddle, she ordered her men to hold their position. "Let them come to you. Be ready to take them," she said hoarsely. She looked to her left where Captain Amalric was, and to her right, where Saint-Germanius waited, and thought that if she had to face death, she could not do it in better company.

A few of the villagers stood with them, keeping their weapons poised to strike. Others had begun the work of barricading their houses and carrying what they could of their food up the hill into the fortress; the women had left the village when the walls were broken and were gathered inside the stone walls.

The invaders at the rear were gathering a pile of heads they had struck off; it was not very large but its intent was clear: the men intended it as their victory monument.

"It is going badly, isn't it?" Berengar said as he surveyed the fields.

Culfre bit back a sharp answer. "It isn't going well."

"What are they going to do?" Pentacoste whispered to Culfre, leaning close to the parapet. "You're a soldier. You know."

Culfre would not let himself look away from the village below. "Fight," he answered.

Pentacoste nodded and ran her tongue over her lips.

"Hold steady," Ranegonda told her soldiers quietly. "When they get here, fight. Fight hard."

The men-at-arms heard her and gathered themselves for the fight; the steady chanting of the invaders was irksome, but they had not yet reached the stage of fighting when it was intolerable.

"Not yet, not yet," Ranegonda warned them as a strange and unexpected calm came over her. "Let them get too close to break and run."

But four of Severic's men, eager to be at the invaders, jolted forward from the line and plunged their horses into the midst of the advancing men. In an instant they were surrounded and their mounts chopped out from under them.

Shocked, Ranegonda could do nothing for a moment, and then shouted, "Forward! Surround them! Get around them! Now!"

More than a dozen of the attacking men were busy with killing the over-hasty soldiers, but those who were not battling the soldiers gathered into an ominous circle, facing the men-at-arms, a living stockade.

The men-at-arms went forward, no longer skirmishing, and the battle began in earnest, the invaders going toward the men-at-arms in that steady, irresistible way that made them the more frightening.

"Get around them!" Ranegonda yelled again, spurring her horse to hurry around the men, before they were so scattered through the village that there was no hope of so small a force as hers containing them; the ring around them was almost complete when the invaders rushed forward, using the clubs on the horses.

"Back! Get back!" shouted Severic, and the men-at-arms strove to move them out of range, but not all of them could escape the furious blows the fanatical men rained on them. Another four went down, their horses screaming and kicking futilely, and then a fifth; the enemy was on them at once, their clubs rising and falling steadily, lethally.

"Look," whispered Pentacoste as she leaned as far over the parapet as she could. "Look."

Culfre was hardly able to breathe, so great was his horror as he watched the battle erupt. He stared in disbelief as the defenders fell, transfixed by the disaster. He was not aware he had Signed himself, or that he had spoken a prayer to the old gods to protect and honor the men of Leosan Fortress.

Now the invaders were at the village houses, and some of them began to drub the doors while others sought out the pens and the storage sheds, seizing any food or livestock they found.

"Are they drawing back?" asked Pentacoste after a short while. "Why should they do that?"

"They . . . they have to," muttered Culfre, and finally shook off the

numbness that held him. "If they don't they'll all be killed." It was an unbearable admission, and he spoke it as if he expected his mouth to burn.

"Could they do that?" Pentacoste asked, her voice strangely soft. Before Culfre could bring himself to answer, she moved away from the parapet and shouted down to the slaves, "Close the gates!"

Brother Erchboge, who was standing a short distance away, goggled at this. "Hohdama! What are you saying!"

The winch groaned and clanked as the slaves hastened to obey.

Culfre turned, filled with shock. "You must not do that," he protested.

"Close them!" Pentacoste insisted, and then faced Culfre. "You said yourself they could get killed. That means we could get killed as well. We must close the gates." She glanced toward Brother Erchboge. "Do you want all of us to be martyrs to your White Christ? Close the gates."

"You can't," Culfre said. "Hohdama, those men will die. The Gerefa will die."

"Better to lose them than all of us as well," said Pentacoste, and added, "They are supposed to guard us with their lives, aren't they? Close the gates."

"I cannot permit you to—" Culfre began.

"You cannot forbid me to give orders. I am the wife of the Gerefa and my father is Dux Pol. Defy me and I will have you thrown over the wall." Rarely had Pentacoste felt such intoxicating power, and so great a reward. She turned to watch the gates swing shut. "Now, bolt them!" she told the slaves. "If anyone but me tells you to open them, refuse, or you will die."

Culfre stared at her in stupefaction, so appalled that he could find no way to express the enormity of what he felt. He backed away from her, then turned on his heel and left her where she stood, Berengar watching her from a short distance away, his face rapt.

The fighting had become chaos, every man-at-arms battling on his own, surrounded by the invading, chanting men. The combat churned between the houses and through the orchard, it scoured the fields of their promised bounty and brought ruin to the buildings.

Somewhere during the confusion Saint-Germanius was separated from Ranegonda. At first he was too busy protecting himself and his mount to look for her, and then he saw her, holding the approach to the fortress with Geraint at her side. He kicked his horse to a bucking canter, clearing his way with broad sweeps of his ax, calling her name as he rode toward her.

Then his horse staggered, half-reared, and fell, with Saint-Germanius still on his back. Around him the invaders converged, their clubs raised. For one hideous instant Saint-Germanius longed for the true death those blows would surely bring. And then he dragged himself from under his horse and caught the nearest of the enemy, swinging him up with such force that the man rose as if he were a little child; a moment later he fell among his companions, flailing and shouting. As he landed, Saint-Germanius hefted a second invader into the air.

Nine of the invaders had been tossed among their own number before Saint-Germanius was able to get clear of them enough to make himself run, weaponless, to aid Ranegonda; his speed was a gift of his blood, and he moved more swiftly than most wolves could run. As he reached her side, she grinned at him. "I was afraid I lost you."

"Not yet," he responded, and swung the thatching hook he had seized on the way into the side of the nearest invader.

"I have a short sword," offered Geraint, indicating the scabbard on his back.

Saint-Germanius nodded. "If I need it."

Ranegonda pointed suddenly to the middle of the destruction of the fields: there was Captain Amalric with five men, and they were gathering for a charge. "He might have a chance this time," she said, and thrust out at another attacker.

"Where are the rest of the fortress's men?" asked Saint-Germanius, and grabbed another man, lifting him and then slamming him into his fellows' ranks.

"I don't know," said Ranegonda in a strangely emotionless tone. "The gates are closed."

"What?" Saint-Germanius was revolted; fueled by his abhorrence of what had been done to them, he cast himself forward among the attackers, and seizing one, used him to hammer at the others, holding them off' with the ferocity of his resistance and their dread of anyone who could perform such feats. He could feel his extraordinary strength begin to ebb, and he shoved his human maul into those who were still coming for them. He held out his hand for the short sword and Geraint slapped the hilt into his palm.

The attackers were massed below them, and now they widened their attack, forcing the three defenders to move apart.

"Captain Amalric!" shouted Ranegonda. "Can you see him? Is he still—"

"He's coming," Geraint cried out a moment before a club caught him

on the side of the head just above his ear; he fell soundlessly, dead before he dropped.

Now there were just the two of them on the approach to the fortress, and both of them were tired. Ranegonda gave Saint-Germanius one quick gesture of triumph, then struck again at the men who faced her.

Saint-Germanius dragged a club from one of the fallen men's hands, and wielding the sword with his left and the club with his right, he stood and fought single-mindedly until one of the cudgels bludgeoned him on the side of the leg. His knee buckled. The next blow, aimed for his head, caught his shoulder, and in the next instant he fell from the roadway leading to the fortress and rolled down the long slope to the place behind the slaughterhouse. Dazed, he lay there while he tried to bring himself to his feet. He could not lie here, he told himself. Ranegonda needed his help.

The fighting above him became more intense and he strove to rise. He heard horses and the incoherent howl of battle; when he finally got to his feet he saw only a tangle of men and horses on the approach.

As he tried to make his way up the incline he lost his footing; this time when he fell he could not force himself to his feet for some while; a gash had opened along his thigh and the combination of pain and weakness was too much for him to overcome. A coldness went through him, and he persuaded himself that it was exhaustion and the end of the heat of battle. He sat down and methodically tore at his chanise, making strips to bind his wound closed. He tried not to think of what could happen to Ranegonda and he could think of nothing else.

Then, without warning, the attackers broke and ran, just a few at first, and then in larger numbers, until every one of their number who could flee was gone.

Bloodied and filthy, Saint-Germanius made his way toward the destruction of the village, where he collapsed. Ewarht found him a short while later, himself nursing a swollen arm.

"They're gone," he said when Saint-Germanius opened his eyes. "I saw what you did. We could not have driven them off without you."

At another time this unexpected praise might have pleased him, but now Saint-Germanius had only one thing he wanted. "Ranegonda. The Gere fa?"

Ewarht averted his eyes; he Signed himself with his injured arm and told Saint-Germanius what he already knew. "No."

Text of an oflficial letter to Pentacoste from her father. Dux Pol of Luitich, carried by escorted messenger to Hamburh and given to Mar-gerefa Oelrih for delivery.

To the wife of the monk-Gerefa Giselberht ofLeosan Fortress and Holy cross Monastery in Saxony, this greeting on the 9th day of May in the Year of Grace 939.

It is through your machinations that my honor is impugned. I have been informed by Pranz Balduin of Goslar that you have made his son Beren-gar your waiting-man, to court you although you are still a wife, and to serve you although you are not permitted such a protector.

Because of what you have done, my House is compromised, and Pranz Balduin is wholly within his rights to demand that I charge you to release his son. As my last command as your father, I tell you to turn that young man away from you and to conduct yourself as it is proper for a wife to do. If you fail to do this, I will instruct your monk-husband to turn you off from him as I, with this letter, turn you off from me.

You are no longer my daughter. You are entitled to nothing that is mine but my curse, and your name is to be stricken from the records of this House. If your husband will have you still, that is his concern. If he will not protect you, I charge no one to care for you and I will do nothing to provide that care. Any who open their doors to you will do so without the hope of reward from me or any of mine. Any child of your body will have no claim upon me and no place in my House.

King Otto and Pranz Balduin will receive copies of this letter, with my request that they honor what I have done. They will not take you as wife or concubine and will allow none of theirs to take you as wife or concubine. They will grant you no charity.

The Church of the White Christ may receive you as a penitent, if you appeal to the Sisters. But if you go there you will not enter the world again, although you will be safe from calumny in the cloister. No Order has agreed to refuse you, but if you seek advancement through piety, you will discover that your way is blocked. If you become a nun, a nun you will remain to the end of your days, and nothing more.

Make your way in the world however you can, Hohdama, but do not come here, or I will treat you as the traitor you are and chain you in a cell for the rest of your days.

Dux Pol

by the hand of Brother Luprician

13

Most of Captain Amalric's wounds had begun to heal, although there was still an angry red welt across his forehead where one of the invaders' clubs had grazed his heaum. "Brother Olafr has come from the monastery." He stood in the middle of Saint-Germanius's quarters, looking around at the chests and sacks. "You are still determined to leave with Margerefa Oelrih."

"Yes," said Saint-Germanius; he had almost left a week ago, the day after the battle: only the wound in his thigh prevented it, and as the gash healed he had reconsidered. Now the deep cut was nothing more than a faint, raspberry-colored line on his skin, as if the injury were years instead of days old. He was lying back supine atop the fur blankets on his bed, his neat, dark linen bliaut over a saffron-colored chanise and black leather braies looking more appropriate for Berengar than the foreigner he was; he regarded Captain Amalric without raising his head. "When he leaves, I will go with him."

Captain Amalric sighed, shifting his weight into his hip. "I know the people of the village and the fortress are not . . . grateful for what you did, not while you've lived here, and not during the battle. But some of us know what we owe you. Some of us do not want to lose you." He looked over at Saint-Germanius with embarrassment. "And we've lost so much."

"Ranegonda," said Saint-Germanius with a world of unspoken grief in her name.

"And Osbern, and Rupoerht, and Walderih, and Kynr. And Ge-raint. And the others. In the village they lost seventeen men and women. Seventeen." He Signed himself out of respect for the dead. "Ten houses destroyed, the stockade useless, and not enough woodcutters to rebuild it by winter."

"They lost most of the crops, as well," said Saint-Germanius with little apparent concern.

"Yes," said Captain Amalric slowly. "If the Danes come now, we will be at their mercy."

"You could hold them off. Gather in the fortress and ..." He found it difficult to say the words aloud. "Close the gates."

"I hope it will not come to that. I hope we will have a chance to recover from the fight. Once we have crops growing things will be better." Captain Amalric cocked his head to the side. "It will be difficult without a smith."

"The Margerefa will arrange for you to have one," said Saint-Ger-manius.

Captain Amalric tried another tack. "All but two of my injured men are recovering well, their wounds healing. The two that are not, well, there was not much hope for them, in any case. Severic will have to live with his blindness, and as for the smashed knee, no one could—" He stared at Saint-Germanius. "You treated the wounds. If you had not been here, five or six more of my men would be dead or dying by now."

"Winolda can treat them as well as I can from this point, given what's available," said Saint-Germanius, and sat up, his mourning, enigmatic eyes on his visitor's. "There was one thing that kept me here. Captain, and she is gone."

Captain Amalric clapped his big hands together. "But it is for her, don't you see? There are things we need urgently, and if she were here—"

Saint-Germanius's look stilled the plea in the Captain's throat. After a short silence, Saint-Germanius said, "All right. While I remain here, I will do what she would expect of me."

Again Captain Amalric was somewhat relieved. "Good," he said. "Yes."

Before the Captain could launch into a new petition, Saint-Germanius forestalled him. "Is all the news bad, or is there some good?"

"Oh, there is good," said Captain Amalric. "None of the children were hurt, but a boy who skinned his knee. The attackers carried off only two of the goats and none of the pigs. If Nisse were alive, he would be happy to know that." He cleared his throat. "The hives you built were untouched, so there is honey, and half the apple trees can be saved. Four dozen cheeses are left in the village, and most of the ducks have come back. And Brother Olafr says that the monks will share what they have with us if we will lend them people to work their fields. They haven't enough monks left who are strong enough for the tasks; the miasma sapped their strength too much." He lowered his eyes and his voice. "Brother Olafr also says that Brother Giselberht was buried under the altar in their church. He says that Brother Giselberht had visions at the end that foresaw all that happened here."

"Ah." Saint-Germanius achieved a faint, ironic smile as he stood up, his leg aching distantly with the effort. "Brother Giselberht. You know, in a century or so they will forget that there was tainted rye here, and that madness came, and they will remember only that he had visions, and they will call him a saint, and they will make the monastery a shrine to his holiness." He saw disbelief in Captain Amalric's face. "I surmise you think not."

"Brother Giselberht took the madness. He died of rot," said Captain Amalric. "He was no saint."

Saint-Germanius shook his head very sHghtly once. "They'll forget that in a hundred years. They will not want to know it. They might remember he had been ill, but they will think he prayed for relief from his suffering and the White Christ granted him visions instead."

"No one could believe that," said Captain Amalric.

"No?" Saint-Germanius left his question unanswered. He crossed the room to the narrow window and looked out over the sparkling May afternoon. "How long, do you think, until the Margerefa arrives?"

"Five, ten days," said Captain Amalric. "If our messenger reaches him, perhaps a day or so earlier."

There was another brief silence between them. "And Pentacoste? What about Pentacoste."

Captain Amalric frowned and pulled at his lower lip. "That is more difficult. She is the daughter of a Dux, and if he forbids any punishment, there is nothing the Margerefa can order without the approval of the King, and the King could decide . . . oh, anything, or nothing." He swallowed hard. "She is being kept in her apartment and the women's quarters, with two women to guard her night and day. She is not permitted to go anywhere outside the landward tower, not even to the Common Hall. And she is not permitted to see or speak with Beren-gar."

This last surprised Saint-Germanius and he turned to Captain Amalric. "How is that."

Now Captain Amalric looked embarrassed. "It is difficult," he said. "But you see. Brother Erchboge has set himself the task of breaking the hold Pentacoste has on Berengar. He prays with Berengar, and exhorts him to confess. Berengar can go nowhere without the monk."

"Has he had any success?" asked Saint-Germanius with slight amusement.

"Not yet. But he glories in opposition." He rocked back on his heels. "So Pentacoste cannot spin or weave, and she is kept confined."

Saint-Germanius considered this. "Perhaps," he said, remembering the fruitless search Ranegonda had made for the secret way out of the fortress. He ran his small hand through his hair. "What more?"

Captain Amalric pursed his mouth, then looked away from Saint-Germanius. "You're right. There is another . . . problem. Berengar is saying that Pentacoste did not give the order to close the gates. He claims that Culfre did it. He has told everyone that Culfre became frightened and thought the battle was lost, so he ordered the gates

closed. He says that the order came after Ranegonda fell, and that Pentacoste went along with him."

Saint-Germanius could not speak for a short while. "Ranegonda was alive when the gates closed. I saw it. Anyone watching from above would have seen her clearly; she was aHve then." It was astonishing how much pain the mention of her name could bring him, how it stilled his body and voice.

"That is what I've told anyone who asks me. I saw her, though I did not see the gates close until after it was done. You're right. Ranegonda was alive afterward: closing the gate was treasonous. But you know how it is: people hear a thing they want to hear, and they believe it. It is easier to believe that Culfre panicked than that Pentacoste deliberately betrayed the fortress." He opened his hands and stared down at them as if he expected something to materialize in them. "I cannot change that. And some would rather execute Culfre than accuse Pentacoste."

"Berengar most of all, it seems," said Saint-Germanius, holding himself very straight.

Captain Amalric shrugged. "He is devoted to her. He cannot say what she has done, not and maintain his devotion."

"Certainly not," said Saint-Germanius after an instant's thought, so gently it was impossible for Captain Amalric to tell if he was being sarcastic. "What will become of Culfre if Berengar's version of the event prevails?"

"Culfre?" Captain Amalric was suddenly extremely uncomfortable. "Well, if it is decided that he countermanded the Gerefa's order, and that was done while the Gerefa was alive, he would be castrated and broken on the wheel. If it is decided that the Gerefa died because of what he did, he would be sawn apart by ropes. It is a ... a slow death."

"Yes," said Saint-Germanius, then turned to face Captain Amalric. "I will say when the gates were closed, if that will help Culfre."

Captain Amalric shook his head several times. "I don't know," he confessed. "You are a foreigner, and the Margerefa might not let you speak, not against someone like Berengar."

"Because he is the son of Pranz Balduin," Saint-Germanius added for him. "I understand."

"But Culfre did nothing wrong. Once she gave the order, he was powerless against her. He could not oppose Pentacoste, not while Berengar was with her." He paced nervously, saying, "If he had tried to stop her, she would have ordered him killed on the spot. And it would have been done, especially with Berengar to support her. If Culfre had

tried to stop her it would have made no difference, the gates would have closed. But . . . She had no right to give the order; if the Margerefa decides that she lacked the authority no matter who her father is or what Berengar said, then she will answer for the Gerefa's death and the loss of half of our men."

"And what would they do to her, if she is guilty?" Saint-Germanius asked as if inquiring about events that happened long ago.

"As a Dux's daughter she cannot be executed except by the order of her father. But she can be confined. There are dungeons, they say, where traitors are left to die, dungeons deep in the earth where no light falls and no door opens. The dungeon is like a bottle in the ground, and—"

"I know what such dungeons are like," Saint-Germanius said, cutting him short as memories of the centuries he had spent in the Babylonian oubliette filled him with profound self-loathing; the priests had called him a demon then, and had provided him victims at every full moon to appease him. In time he had come to despise the terror he fed on, and to yearn for the ephemeral durability of intimacy to end his unutterable loneliness.

"What is it?" asked Captain Amalric.

Saint-Germanius made a gesture of dismissal. "A thing from my past. It is over."

"Then may the White Christ be thanked for that. Your eyes were like charred sockets." He Signed himself and looked at Saint-Germanius with new respect and caution.

Saint-Germanius did his best to smile. "Tomorrow. I will be able to work tomorrow. Let me know what you need me to forge for you. I will go to the smithy, if the people of the fortress won't object. Have the children gather up any metal they can find where the fighting was." He had not been able to save Ranegonda; her body had been bludgeoned and pulled so badly that she had had to be buried in pieces. But she had given her life, and the life he offered her, to preserve this place, and for that he owed the fortress more than he had given it.

"Those who will object know to keep silent," said Captain Amalric in a tone that promised he would tend to the problem before it could arise.

Saint-Germanius nodded his acknowledgment. "She deserved better of me," he said, more to himself than the Captain.

Captain Amalric scoffed. "She had more of you than anyone. And without shame. Not many men would grant any woman so much." He touched his forehead, and was surprised when Saint-Germanius re-

sponded with a proper Byzantine reverence. "What was that for?" He waited, but Saint-Germanius gave him no answer.

As the Captain was about to leave the room, Saint-Germanius asked, "Who will be Gerefa here next? You?"

"I doubt it," said Captain Amalric without rancor. "I'm as common-born as any soldier. They don't make Gerefas of the likes of me, not when the King has cousins seeking advancement."

"That's unfortunate," said Saint-Germanius sincerely. "The fortress could not do better than you to protect it."

Over the next several days the damaged parts of the stockade were pulled down and new logs set in place. Those houses in the village which had been wrecked or damaged received their first repairs. Nine of the villagers and their wives followed Brother Olafr back to Holy Cross Monastery to work their fields. Gradually the usual rhythms of life were resumed, tentatively at first but with growing sureness as each day passed.

On the sixth day the precarious normality of fortress life was upset when Osyth came running from the landward tower shortly after dawn, screaming that Pentacoste was missing. She gave Genovefe and Captain Amalric a distraught account of going to the women's quarters in the landward tower where Pentacoste had retired late the night before to pray and meditate—or so she had assured Juste and Winolda, who tended her in the evening—and now was not there, or anywhere else in the landward tower that any of the women could discover.

"Search for her," ordered Captain Amalric. "Look everywhere in the tower, including the women's quarters and the Gerefa's rooms. Have the women out, and let the men-at-arms search."

Enolda objected as soon as she heard this. "It is not fitting for men to go to the women's quarters. The search must be made by women."

"Women have already searched," Captain Amalric pointed out with exaggerated patience. "And Pentacoste has not been found."

At the edge of the excited gathering, Saint-Germanius said, "Let me do it. I am a foreigner and I am leaving."

There was silence at his offer, and then Captain Amalric decided. "Yes. That will do it. And a woman will accompany you." He looked around to see if anyone would protest.

"It is irregular," said Delwin, doing his best to be more grown-up than he was.

"That it is, but what else can we do." He motioned to Enolda. "Have the women remove anything that men should not see, or look through. Hurry."

Enolda and four other women worked quickly, and in a short while Saint-Germanius and Osyth began their search of the women's quarters on the level above the muniment room.

"There is nothing in either room, nothing. The walls are stone," said Osyth after making a second careful circuit of them; her shoulder was paining her this morning and her temper was short. "She could not leave this place. There is no door, no stairs, no corridor. Perhaps she found a way to make her spells work without spinning and weaving."

"Perhaps," said Saint-Germanius as he inspected the irregularities in the walls. "But first I would rather exhaust simpler explanations." He went behind the screen in the smaller of the two rooms, ignoring the shocked warning from Osyth. A line of stones projected from the wall here, one of them more prominent than the rest. Saint-Germanius pushed and pressed each of them in turn, and was not surprised when a narrow section of the wall swung down making a bridge into a tunnel. He stood looking into the darkness, his features expressionless. "Tell Captain Amalric the passage has been found," he said softly.

Osyth hurried to his side, staring at the opening. "The White Christ preserve us!" she exclaimed, and Signed herself.

By afternoon both ends of the secret passage had been sealed, and Captain Amalric put his hands on his hips in satisfaction. "Of course, she won't be able to get back in with this closed." His chuckle was rich. "Then she'll have to come to the stockade gate like any traveler on the road, not being strong enough to knock down the new sections of the wall."

"And when do you think that will be?" Saint-Germanius asked him.

"Certainly before sunset. With those men still wandering, she would be a fool to remain outside." He hitched his thumb in the direction of the cove. "She won't find much protection there, not with the old gods."

"No, she won't," Saint-Germanius agreed.

But Pentacoste did not return that evening, nor the next day, nor the day after, and Berengar had gone from fretting to despair. He accosted Captain Amalric at the edge of the Marshaling Court to air his grievances.

"We must search for her. The madmen are still in the forest, killing. The man-at-arms in the light room said that there have been Danish ships at sea. They may have taken her." He Signed himself; he was Signing himself frequently now. "She is at their mercy."

"If the Danes have her, they will have to appeal to her father for ransom," said Captain Amalric with a gesture of resignation. "With Brother Giselberht in his grave they can obtain none here." He looked

away from the distressed young man. "If the madmen got her, she will be dead by now, hanging from a branch if she was lucky."

Brother Erchboge, who had been listening with ill-disguised righteousness. Signed himself and whispered a prayer for the missing Pen-tacoste.

"I should have insisted she marry me," said Berengar, his emotion revealed in his taut features. "As soon as word came that Brother Giselberht was dead, I should have married her."

"Well, you didn't," said Captain Amalric, who was growing tired of this, for it had become Berengar's litany. "So you will have to deal with her father, if the Danes have her."

"But think what they will do to her!" exclaimed Berengar, flapping his arms in horror and dismay. "You know what they do to the women they take."

"They make them slaves and whores if they are not ransomed," said Captain Amalric, and signaled to Culfre, who was inspecting tack, looking for battle-inflicted damage; it was one of the few duties he could be assigned until the Margerefa Oelrih decided his fate. "How many of the saddles are usable?"

He answered promptly. "Ten so far, but most need new stirrup leathers."

"That's easily managed," said Captain Amalric, paying no attention to Berengar's outburst.

"She has to be saved," Berengar interrupted passionately. "She is suffering, and we must answer for it."

Captain Amalric swung around and faced Berengar. "Thanks to your beloved, our Gerefa was killed, and some of our men died who did not have to, because she ordered the gate closed—"

"That was Culfr—" Berengar began, only to be cut short.

"You and I know that is not true." Now that he had started, Captain Amalric could not contain the indignation he had pent up within him. "Pentacoste ordered the slaves to close the gates. Our men-at-arms within the fortress could not get out to help, and those fighting in the village could not retreat; those who died after the gates were closed were needlessly lost. Needlessly. And all because of the Gerefa's widow." He regarded Berengar with a look of pity and contempt. "And you stood there, you let her do it, because you could not say no to her, not even in that. What man permits a woman to make a poppet of him? She might as well have left you for an offering at that cove of hers."

Berengar was white with rage and something less defined. "You cannot say that to me."

"Because you are Pranz Balduin's son," Captain Amalric stated. "So be it."

Brother Erchboge laid his hand on Berengar's shoulder. "Come away from here, and pray. Pray for her salvation, and the salvation of all men."

As Berengar went off with the monk. Captain Amalric looked back at Culfre with a sheepish half-smile. "I probably should not have said those things."

"He is angry," said Culfre. "Deeply angry."

Berengar was still angry the next day when the wooden horn sounded from the parapet to announce an arrival.

"It is the Margerefa!" shouted Faxon from the post over the gates. "He has a large escort with him."

"Now something will be done!" bellowed Berengar as he came from the chapel. Brother Erchboge at his heels. "We'll see about these lies and deceptions."

By the time the gates clanked open, most of the people of the fortress had gathered to greet him, a few of them kneeling in gratitude as he dismounted and handed his reins to the waiting slave.

"There has been a fight here, I see," Margerefa Oelrih observed instead of going through the forms of greeting. "When was it?"

"Nine days since," said Captain Amalric. "There were seventy or eighty men, all bearing clubs." He hesitated. "The Gerefa is among the dead."

Margerefa Oelrih looked surprised. "Giselberht?"

"Ranegonda," said Captain Amalric. "There are others, as well."

"You will have to tell me the whole of it—a full and accurate account, mind. But after we have some beer or mead. It has been a long ride." He motioned to the others with him. "We would not have been here for another day or two, but the Roman kept urging us to travel."

"Roman?" asked one of the women.

Toward the rear of the Margerefa's company there were eight men in Francian armor surrounding a well-dressed, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, middle-aged man on a lanky dark-brown horse, leading five pack mules. "That Roman. His name is—"

"Hrotiger," said Saint-Germanius from the back of the crowd.

At the sound of that voice, Hrotiger turned, and in a single motion swung out of the saddle and went down on his knee. "My master," he said in Saxon Germanian, though his accent was even stranger than Saint-Germanius's.

The people of the fortress fell back as Saint-Germanius advanced, a few of them staring at him as if they had never seen him before.

Saint-Germanius touched Hrotiger's shoulder as signal for him to rise, and asked in Persian, "Aren't you being a . . . trifle extreme with this deference?" and added in Germanian, "It is good to see you, old friend."

Hrotiger answered first in Persian, "Having seen how these people treat foreigners, I don't think so." Then he added, again in Germanian, "I rejoice to have found you at last."

"And not an hour too soon," said Saint-Germanius as sudden desolation swept through him.

"From the look of the village I should have got here sooner," said Hrotiger as he rose to his feet.

Saint-Germanius shook his head, unable to speak of what happened where so many could hear. "Was it a long journey?"

"We came as quickly as we could," Hrotiger answered, and did his best not to notice the people who crowded around him. "This is May eighteenth. I left Rome in March, on the seventeenth."

"You made good time," said Saint-Germanius, and added with a quick half-smile, "You were determined." He put his hand on Hrotiger's shoulder again. "Thank you." Then he turned and went toward Margerefa Oelrih, giving him a Byzantine reverence. "If there is anything you need to know from me, I am at your disposal. I want to tell you about . . . the things that happened."

The Margerefa watched him, his manner critical, measuring. "Good." He narrowed his eyes, inspecting Saint-Germanius as if this was the first time he had seen him. "That bondsman of yours says you are an important man in Rome."

"For a foreigner," said Saint-Germanius honestly and sardonically.

"Certainly a wealthy man, if your bondsman is any indication." He nodded toward Hrotiger, who was better-dressed than anyone at the fortress, including the hollow-eyed Berengar.

"Yes. I am wealthy." His tone was carefully neutral as he gave the Margerefa a bow. "I will not keep you from your refreshment; do you excuse me? I would like to speak privately with my bondsman."

Brother Erchboge tugged at Berengar's sleeve, whispering, "There will be a better time, when the foreigner is out of the way. The Margerefa will hsten to you then; now he will not."

"He has to Hsten," said Berengar in quiet certainty.

As if they had been given a signal, the people of the fortress began to speak loudly and to drift toward the Common Hall, a few of them making a clumsy escort for Margerefa Oelrih and his company. Captain Amalric was careful not to behave as if he were Gerefa, but did what he could to be certain that the Margerefa was properly received.

Hrotiger turned to the armed men who accompanied him. "Go with them. Have your meal. You can see to the horses after the slaves have tended them."

Saint-Germanius pointed to the seaward tower. "There." As he and Hrotiger went toward it, he added, "You brought the ransom with you?"

"That and more." He indicated the pack mules. "There are ninety gold coins in the sack. Angels and Crowns. From what the Margerefa says, you could purchase this entire fortress and village for that amount."

Saint-Germanius gestured his approval. "Have you had to pay many bribes?"

"A few, and once I had to give a donation to the monastery or be refused the right to use their bridge." Hrotiger glanced around, then said, "It isn't Rome."

"Rome is hardly Rome any longer," said Saint-Germanius as he led Hrotiger into the seaward tower. "It is not the way we knew it before."

"Sadly," Hrotiger agreed. He entered Saint-Germanius's quarters with an expression of misgiving. At last he said, "Well, you have lived in worse places."

"So I think, too," said Saint-Germanius, and sat on the stool at his trestle table. "I will arrange for you to have a bed here tonight."

"Only tonight? It was my understanding that the Margerefa plans to be here for several days." Hrotiger took care with his next observation. "Only that Captain seems to be in charge."

"He is," was Saint-Germanius's terse answer.

"Your letter said there was a Gerefa." Hrotiger watched Saint-Germanius, sensing the loss within him.

Saint-Germanius nodded, and longed for his lost capacity for weeping. "Ranegonda. The Gerefa? was killed."

"In the battle?" asked Hrotiger.

Again Saint-Germanius nodded. "I tried to prevent it. I tried to protect her. It was not enough." He rose from his stool and faced toward the narrow window and the sea. 'There is nothing here for me now."

Eventually, Hrotiger knew, he would learn much more. Now he recognized the anguish in Saint-Germanius's eyes and was content to do the tasks set for him. "Tomorrow, then, we leave, if the Margerefa will consent to let us." He started toward the door. "I will bring your chests, and the other things you need."

"You are a wise man, Rogerian," said Saint-Germanius in the Latin of Imperial Rome. "I am more grateful for that than you know."

Hrotiger bowed and withdrew.

By midmorning the following day only the athanor and the trestle table remained in Saint-Germanius's quarters; the rest had already been moved to other rooms or was packed and loaded on the mules. Saint-Germanius stood in the stone chamber, a large jar in his hands. He felt restored by the new lining of his native earth in his soles. He looked very splendid now, and more foreign in his talaris tunica of black silk edged with tablions of silver in his device of the eclipse. Black goat-leather bamberges protected his legs and thick-soled brodequins shod him. On his left hand he wore a silver signet ring with his echpse sigil incised on it. In Rome, where this finery was fashionable, he would still attract notice; in Saxony he was someone to gawk at.

Captain Amalric came to the open door and hesitated, awed by what he saw. Finally he touched his forehead and said, "Thank you for telling your part in the battle to the Margerefa. After what Berengar said, I thought it would be impossible to convince the Margerefa what—"

Saint-Germanius turned and looked at him. 'T was honored to do it," he said with great sincerity.

"For the Gerefa." Captain Amalric could not take his eyes off this imposing figure, for although they were of the same height Saint-Germanius had a presence about him that the Captain had never experienced before.

"For Ranegonda," said Saint-Germanius.

The Captain stared at the leather bag in his hands. "Culfre will be grateful to you all of his days."

"There is no cause. I told the truth, no more." He put the jar on the table. "And this is given in her name." He looked back at Captain Amalric. "It is for open wounds. You do not need much of it. If you put it on open wounds, they will heal more quickly and take less pus. When the lungs are rotten, drink a little of it in mead and if the rot has not taken hold the lungs will clear."

"Is that what you made here?" asked Captain Amalric. "In that hive-shaped oven?"

"This is a better preparation, but they are similar." He stared at the jar for a short while. "It will last you for some time if it is used judiciously."

"In the name of the Gerefa," added Captain Amalric.

Saint-Germanius gave a short sigh. "Yes."

There was a strained silence between them, and then Captain Amalric lifted the leather bag he carried. "Osyth brought this to me." He unfastened the thongs but did not open it. "She ... she found it while

she and Genovefe were . . . were preparing the Gerefa . . . were preparing to bury her." He thrust the bag forward. "Here."

Puzzled, Saint-Germanius took the bag. "What is it?"

"It is yours," said Captain Amalric.

While Captain Amalric watched, Saint-Germanius opened the bag and drew out the silver pectoral set with a large black sapphire; one of the raised wings on the pectoral had been bent and it was still discolored with blood. The chain was broken, the links smashed. Saint-Germanius stared down at it, feeling as if a huge, icy wind blew through him. Carefully he returned the pectoral to the leather pouch, and only then did he look directly at Captain Amalric. "Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Captain Amalric lowered his eyes. "It is yours," he repeated.

Saint-Germanius did not speak; he took the leather bag and slipped it inside his talaris tunica. He could feel the pectoral as if it were hot, as if it were alive; in some strange way it assuaged his grief.

"Do not forget her," said Captain Amalric softly.

"No." Saint-Germanius would never forget, could not forget until the true death itself.

As he rode out from Leosan Fortress that morning with Hrotiger and his armed escort, of all that he carried with him Saint-Germanius treasured most this last token of Ranegonda.

Excerpt of a report from Margerefa Oelrih to King Otto, written by Brother Andoche. Carried by escorted messenger to King Otto at Ra-tisbon in seventeen days, on the 24th of August, 939.

. . . In regard to matters at Leosan Fortress, my King, it is my duty to tell you that the men who were cast out from Bremen have been there and brought much damage and suffering to the village and the fortress. It will be necessary to provide more men to work the land and the forest as well as send men-at-arms for the fortress if the fortress is to be the bastion you wish it to be. Before the end of the year they will need to be supplied food, as well, for the Bremen men, in their fighting, ruined the crops growing in the fields.

I would recommend two measures be taken at once in order to insure the safety of the fortress and the village. First, generous allocations of food should be provided at once, including barrels of salt pork and goat, along with flour, dried peas, and cheeses. That will do much to end the fears of these people, who are haunted by the spectre of starvation every time they look at their fields. If such foodstuffs are provided, I am certain

that the work carried on by the people of the village and the for tress would increase, which will not only benefit these people and their settlement but the work you have mandated as well, my King.

Second, I would double the number of men-at-arms at this fortress. Given the number they have, they have done very well, but they have no one to spare, and should there be an injury or an illness their protection diminishes sharply. With more men-at-arms there is every reason to believe that they will not have to endure another such battle as the one against the men of Hamburh, that took the life of their Gerefa as well as many of the villagers and men-at-arms.

In regard to the Gerefa, she fell most valiantly in battle, and were it not for the actions of her sister-in-law, might have lived. Ranegonda led her forces well, according to Captain Amalric, who has served as her deputy here since her death. I have spoken to other men who were in the fight with her, and they have nothing but praise for her. The foreigner, the Excellent Comites Saint-Germanius, has written his account of the battle, much of which he fought at her side, and it is included in this dispatch. The men-at-arms who were on guard have confirmed most of what he said.

This brings me to a more difficult matter. There is an account of the battle from Berengar, son ofPranz Balduin, which differs markedly from what the others have said. He, too, observed the battle from the parapets, and he insists that the Gerefa fell some time before her soldiers say she did. It may be that he did not understand what he watched, for he is no soldier. But if he is correct, then there is a very difficult matter to solve, for he declares that the Gerefa was down when Pentacoste, the wife of the monk-Gerefa Giselberht, ordered that the gates be closed. At first he maintained that one of the men-at-arms gave the order, but later, when all the others denied this, he admitted that he might be mistaken.

If it is true that Pentacoste ordered the gates closed while the Gerefa was alive, she is a traitor to the fortress and subject to the fate of traitors. If the Gerefa had already fallen, then she may have had authority to give the order, but that is yet to be determined. If you conclude that the soldiers were right in their reports it will be necessary for me to send word of Pentacoste's treason to her father. I will need your decision on this point before I return to the fortress in order to put the record of it in the muniment room.

I must also inform you, my King, that Pentacoste herself is missing and that a demand for her ransom from the Danes has come. Had her father not disowned her I would, of course, deliver that demand to him. But as I was carrying his writ when I went to the fortress, there can be no possibility of appealing to him, so I must address you instead. The demand

is for thirty gold pieces, which is a high price for a widow. But if you will not authorize the payment, she will remain the slave of the Danes and they will certainly make a whore of her.

Berengar, son ofPranz Balduin, has sworn that he will pay the ransom and then marry her, no matter what has been done to her. But the monk at the fortress. Brother Erchboge, has already declared that she is now an adulteress and upon her return must be drowned, for although her husband was a monk and died before she left the fortress, she did not know she was a widow when she went and therefore must be held accountable for the sin she supposes she committed. Again, I must ask you to make a decision and inform me of what you wish to be done before I return to Leosan Fortress in October.

The Excellent Comites Saint-Germanius, upon his departure, left a ransom of fifty gold pieces, a sum in excess of what was asked for him, and which he stated was for the cost of his maintenance while he was at the fortress. This money is currently in the muniment room of Leosan Fortress and will remain there as part of the fortress treasury unless you, my King, should require it. This brings the funds of the fortress to seventy-two gold pieces and ninety-eight silver pieces, which would pay for an extension of the fortifications to include part of the village without making a demand upon your purse. The work would require more stonemasons than are currently at the fortress, there being only one at this time. If you, my King, will authorize it, I will hire the stonemasons myself and take them with me on my next visit so that they may commence their work before the autumn storms come.

At the request of the monks of Holy Cross Monastery, the fortress's nearest neighbor, the villagers who have lost their crops are tending the fields for the monks, who have yet to recover from the madness and rotting that came over them. While this is worthy, it cannot long continue if Leosan Fortress is to thrive. Therefore I suggest that the Pope be asked to grant an enlargement of the monastery so that new monks may come to do the tasks that are now undertaken by villagers. The villagers will not be able to remain away from their own fields for very long without compromising their position more than they have already. It would be wrong to ask them to sacrifice more, no matter how much the monks say their souls will be improved.

In regard to the rebuilding of Oeldenburh, it is my duty to report to you, my King, that many of the houses are still in disrepair and it is not likely that they will be fit to live in before winter. The walls are also breached in many places, leaving the whole of the city open to any determined foe with weapons and a company of men. This is the fault of the Obodrites and

Wagrians who have yet to submit to Saxon rule and continue to resist all your efforts in their regions. I have no doubt that these people have aided the unfortunate outcasts from Bremen who have so ravaged Saxony, and will continue to do so until constrained to stop . . .

14

Dellingr's hearth was crowded as his men gathered in the long room for their evening meal, the first one in their own village since they went on their raid to the south at the end of winter. Although it was now late spring and turning warm, most of the Danes were dressed in fur garments, their untrimmed beards and unkempt hair making them look to Pentacoste like animals instead of men. She decided that they acted like animals as well, or the lowest foreign peasants, swilling down mead and biting their food from knives instead of eating from trenchers with their fingers and spoons; she expected better of fighting men. As she watched, they drank mead from cups made of the skulls of their conquered foes and boasted of the pillaging they had wrecked on the countryside that was now in the hands of the Saxons—and that had been theirs until a generation ago, and which they continued to regard as theirs.

"Do not listen to them," whispered one of the other new slaves, a former potter from Bremen called Halvor; he had come to her side while carrying a barrel of mead for the Danes. "They are liars, all of them."

Pentacoste tossed her head and favored the man with a disdainful look. "You are a foolish creature. How can you hope to best them if you will not hsten? Besides, most of them are half-drunk, in any case." She smoothed the front of her bliaut, hating the stains that marred it, and silently cursing the rents in the sleeves and the smuts on her chanise. Yet she was determined to make her best appearance, as befitted her heritage and her current position of relative favor, for among the newly captured slaves, she alone was kept apart from the others and treated with a modicum of respect, in anticipation of the ransom she would fetch. She alone had not been regularly beaten. And among the few women captured, she had not been raped.

"You are the one who is being foolish; you will need our help soon," Halvor said to her, and moved away before anyone noticed they had been talking, for such contacts between slaves were forbidden, and the

punishment for defying the rule was severe. "Now that we are at the village, things will change. For all of us."

"That they will." Pentacoste moved out of her partial enclosure, shaking the straw from her clothes and doing her best to straighten her hair. She had asked for a comb several times but none had been given to her. Now, with a gesture of impatience, she took up her place near the corner where she would be fed when the Danes were finished with their meal; when she had first been captured she had not deigned to eat the leavings of these rough men, but now she waited for her portion of their scraps as eagerly as any of the slaves. This evening, as always, she was annoyed that the Danes would not speak Francian or Saxon Ger-manian, but insisted on conversing in their own guttural tongue, of which she could understand little.

Dellingr was laughing loudly now, his head thrown back and his eyes squinted almost closed. "What a time it was!"

The rest of the men roared their approval, and a few of them began to sing. Pentacoste believed that the song was worse than the howling of wolves, and she clapped her hands over her ears, wanting it to be over. She hated these Danes with an intensity that made her loathing of Giselberht and the White Christ seem insignificant. From the afternoon they had found her in the forest until this moment, she had been subjected to such humiliation that she could not recall any of it without chagrin. What made it worse was that the Danes expected her to be grateful to them for not doing more terrible things to her. It would please her to see each one of these men flayed and hanging from hooks over her father's gates. She did not like the men from Bremen who were captured with her much better than she liked the Danes, for they had become savage with living in the woods and raiding outposts and other places as they had attacked Leosan Fortress.

She was also coming to disapprove of Berengar, for surely he should have found her by now, and ransomed her, for all his avowals of passion; he was as feckless as all men, she supposed, and her contempt for him justified because of it. The Margerefa Oelrih was also lax in his responsibilities for not coming to her rescue, for he was an official of King Otto, with an obligation to protect his vassals; he claimed to have affection for her, but that was demonstrably untrue. Her father could not be expected to stir himself, but he could authorize men-at-arms to find her and bring her back to Saxony or Lorraria, although she had no wish to live in his household again. She rehearsed her many injuries at the hands of these men, relishing the vengeance she would have of them when she returned. Then she thought of the dark, scathing eyes of the foreigner, and she had to keep from cursing him aloud. If only he had

taken her when she was prepared to accept him. But no, he had to stir her jealousy by his pretense with Ranegonda! How could he dare to treat her as if she were nothing more than a common trull, seUing her flesh in the market-square? She glared at the backs of the Danes as they got down to the rambunctious business of eating, her wrath intended for them and for Saint-Germanius. What was it about these wild men that was so lost to conduct that they would treat her in this way? How could they not recognize her quality? And how could Saint-Germanius refuse her, when she had at last offered what she knew beyond any question he so clearly longed to have? He was worse than the Danes, for they knew no better, while he had the airs of one who has been at court, and claimed high position for himself. No doubt he was boasting, making more of himself than he was, much the same way these Danes were boasting about their exploits on their raids; how foolish of the others at the fortress to be taken in by his foreign accent and strange ways when anyone could see he was a charlatan.

Two of the slaves staggered toward the long plank tables, carrying a roasted boar slung on a pole between them. They hoisted this with some difficulty to the surface of the table and all but dropped it onto the bed of flat loaves that waited for it. The Danes roared their approval, waiting while Dellingr cut the first three slabs of meat for himself.

"Have at him," shouted Dellingr, reaching for one of the breads as he went back to his place at the head of the long table as his men surged forward, each determined to slice a portion for himself that was better than his fellows'. Their jostling was fairly amiable because there was more than enough to go around; had there not been, real contests would have been fought over the meal.

Pentacoste sat very still as she watched the melee that ensued. How disgusting they were, these great, hairy men with their big knives and roistering ways. She had long been off^ended by the manner of males, and never more than now, when the men who kept her treated her with less regard than they had for a good mare. She would not tolerate such degradation, even from marauding Danes. One day they would all pay for what she had been forced to endure here, she promised herself as she had done every hour she had spent in Danish hands. She would have recompense for her many indignities.

As the Danes settled back to devour their boar, Dellingr signaled for a harper to come toward the hearth and sing. "We haven't had any great stories but what we made up, not since we left, and most of them were Hes," he said to the harper, chuckling with his men. "You are one of those we have missed; you and your harp and your stirring lays. You will tell us the adventures of heroes, Osred, so we may judge our own."

The harper was a man of middle-years and his voice was rough with over-use; he walked as if he were unsure of his footing until he reached his place by the hearth, where he twanged his seven-stringed instrument and began to recount the story of one of the heroes of the past, a red-caped scoundrel who kidnapped the children of a Christian Bishop and sold them to the Islamites, after carrying the children from the Baltic to the Black Sea and having a number of adventurous escapades on the way, all of which enriched him and made him the adored lover of beautiful women. Many of the verses were greeted with whoops and lewd gestures by the Danes, who appeared to know the tale well, for they fell silent as the harper played, listening attentively to the verses.

It was a repulsive myth to Pentacoste, for it made the Francians and Germanians appear foolish and venal, armored knights who were paid to kill peasants and burn keeps; she listened with growing ire as the harper sang the catalogue of adventures, his fingers moving restlessly over the strings, finding the mode of his song in their voices. For Pentacoste, she felt her sense of insult growing as he continued to play, recounting the desire his hero inspired in the breast of the Queen of the Greeks, a woman who claimed never to have known the caress of a man before the Danish hero arrived. As the Danes howled their approval and suggestions to the harper for the sake of his hero, Pentacoste plotted her revenge on these hideous men and their brutish pleasures.

The harper finally completed the story, and stood while the Danes bellowed their applause at him. Only then did Pentacoste realize the man was blind, and his skill at singing his sole means of making his way in the world, which served to increase her contempt for him. She watched him as he felt his way toward the large table, holding his harp very high in his left hand so that it would come to no harm. He took the place he was guided to and drank a long draught of mead.

"We will want another ballad," warned Dellingr, his high color revealing the quantity of food and drink he had consumed. "But take rest and feed yourself, good Osred. Fortify yourself for your next performance."

The Danes laughed and drank to Osred, who responded in kind, though with a certain prudent reserve which he claimed, when he was pressed to have more mead, was necessary if he were to remember all the words of his next tale. He was allowed to remain sober for that reason, and no other.

"Sing us a tale about willful women," Dellingr ordered a bit later when the harper had finished his meal; he had eaten hungrily and quickly, as if he feared the food would be snatched away from him. "Any woman will do, so long as her beauty matches her obstinance."

He glanced toward the corner where he knew Pentacoste waited, and nodded decisively. "Sing of how, through her willfulness, she came to grief."

Osred caught the hard intent in the humorous order, and bowed gravely. "If that will please you, then I will do it," he vowed.

"When supper is over," said Dellingr with a gesture to show he did not expect Osred to give up food to entertain them.

So the men continued their boasting, which grew more outrageous as the evening wore on; more dishes were brought, including a fish stew with fragrant herbs that made Pentacoste's mouth water. Toward the end of the meal a second barrel of mead was called for as Osred took his place near the fire once again and began to play, telling the story of a faithless woman who killed her bastard children and betrayed her noble lover for spite; when he was dead and her crimes discovered, she was charged for her cruelty and sentence was passed against her: her lips and breasts were cut off and her tongue sht so that she could never again work her heinous spells on men.

Around the table the Danes yelled approval for the judgment as Osred repeated the last stanzas of the song, his sightless eyes turned in the direction of Dellingr, who had requested such a story to amuse these men.

Pentacoste understood enough of the song to be furious. It was tempting to rail at the Danes, upbraiding them for their lack of proper reverence for high-born females of great power, but she knew it was useless, and imprudent. There would be time enough for that when she was ransomed and free of them. In the meantime, she decided she would give them a taste of her skill; she found several long straw stalks and began to knot them together, reciting certain conjurations as she did, calling upon the old gods to bring the Danes to a bitter and well-deserved end.

The fire had burned down to sullen em.bers by the time the Danes reeled out of the long house and made their ways to their own dwellings, some of them leaning on one another to keep from falling, others making their way from log building to log building, using the upright log walls for support. Only Dellingr was left behind, and as he signaled his slaves to come scavenge their meals from the remains of the feast, he approached Pentacoste, bowing a little toward her as his eyes grew large. "Come here. Sit. I have saved meat and stew for you, Hohdama," he said, in acceptable Germanian.

It would have been vastly satisfying to throw the food in his face to show how repellent he and his offer were, but Pentacoste was famished, and could not bring herself to do it. With her head high, she looked

directly at him as if he were one of the lowest slaves in the compound. "It would compromise your ransom if I starve, would it not?"

He laughed, and Pentacoste realized that he was not so drunk as his men had been, which alarmed her; he would not be so sleepy as she hoped. "The ransom had better be more than your wergeld, to pay for all you have eaten and the trouble you have caused us, Hohdama." His use of her title seemed offensive to Pentacoste and she stiffened at the sound of it; Dellingr paid no notice to her umbrage and indicated a place near his chair at the end of the table. "Be seated and eat."

"From your plate?" she asked, affronted that he should suggest such a courtesy when he was nothing more than a Dane. Yet she sat and picked up the flat bread, now soggy with meat juices. It horrified her to find it delicious.

"You've gotten too thin," complained Dellingr, watching her eat with an intensity that troubled Pentacoste. "You're as lean as those men from Bremen. It will not please your husband or your father to find you in such a state." He straddled the bench beside her and stared at her profile as she did her best to continue to eat. "You miss your husband, I'd warrant."

"As would any wife," she responded between tiny bites of bread.

"There are things a woman needs when she has no husband by her." His eyes were fever-bright. "You are too much a woman, for all your temper, to live long without a man to . . . attend to you."

There was a thickness in his voice which she recognized with well-disguised scorn: the old gods had moved to assist her, and now this Dane was in her thrall. She turned her head to look at him. "How could any good woman seek the attendance of any man but her husband?"

Dellingr laughed. "Do you never feel heat in your womb, and the softness of your bones that—"

"How dare you speak of such things to me!" she cried out, and only a small portion of her indignation was false.

"You are my captive," he reminded her firmly, his courtly manner vanishing. "It is well you remember it. If we did not want ransom for you, I would have taken you the first night after we found you, and my men would have had you after that. But you are Hohdama, and you are worth gold for your return. That promise protects you. As long as you want it to protect you."

The food, which a moment ago had tasted fit for the gods, now had all the savor of dust. Pentacoste swallowed hard, wondering if her spell had been a bit too compelling. "If you defile me there will be no ransom; instead, you will owe my husband wergeld," she reminded

Dellingr, making an effort to keep from trembling. "And my father, as well."

"Let them come and fetch it, if they want it," said Dellingr. "They might thank me for teaching you to conduct yourself more properly. You are a difficult woman who has never been brought to obedience." He laughed again, the humor gone from the sound of it. "Tell me, what do you miss about your husband?"

Pentacoste bit back a scathing answer; if Dellingr knew Giselberht was now a monk of the White Christ he might decide it was useless to wait for a ransom. What would happen to her then filled her with dread. "He is my husband," she said. "What I miss is between him and me."

"Truly," said DeUingr, his implication lascivious; his smile ended as his tongue slid over his hps. "And you need not fear the loss of what is between you. If you would like to have it."

"I have no wish to drown," she said, her voice cold. "Nothing you can offer would save me from drowning. If you were to take me, drowning would be my punishment, whether or not my ransom was paid."

"A fooHsh waste of a woman," said Dellingr. "A good beating would suffice." He put his hand on her shoulder, reinforcing his threat. "If you said nothing about it, how could anyone know what you have done with me?"

Pentacoste deliberately moved the plate aside. "If I had a child, there could be no doubt."

"Say it is your husband's get. How would anyone know otherwise?" Dellingr challenged. "Or have one of the old women give you a potion to be rid of it before it fills your belly." His hand tightened and he leaned closer to her; she felt his hot breath on her cheek. "Don't you know that there are many other women who have done this thing? You are Hohdama, and surely you have learned of ways to be rid of such unwanted burdens."

Pentacoste shuddered, more from the weight of his hand than from his suggestion, though she pretended it was the latter and not the former which inspired her spasm. "And if the ransom does not come this summer? You would have to keep me until the next spring. Nothing would save me. And what if I have to carry a child through the winter? What then?"

"We will leave it in the forest when it is born," said Dellingr, and went on more forcefully. "Do not waste my time with these foolish disputes. You will not be allowed to oppose me here in my own house.

I have borne with your airs long enough; there will be an end to them. With or without your consent, I will have you, Hohdama. Now that I am with my people, I will make you my woman. You had best resign yourself. It is my right to have you."

"Not a married woman," she said, trying to pull away from him, without success.

"If you are still a married woman," Dellingr remarked lightly. "You escaped a battle, or so you claimed. Your husband might have fallen in that battle. You could be a widow. And that would mean only your father would have claim on you. Who knows if he is living still?" He moved his hand down her side. "Eat. Women were not meant to be sticks."

She chewed, working her jaw so that he could see it clearly. Her hands picked at the meat, tearing it into ever-smaller bits before she would put any more of it in her mouth. Perhaps, she told herself, he would feel the spell tonight, and by morning he would be as devoted to her as Berengar had claimed to be. Not that she wanted such a suitor as Dellingr, but the spell would bind him to her, and that would serve her purpose until the ransom arrived. There would be time to demand retribution when her father had paid for her release.

Dellingr touched her hair with his other hand, trying to loosen the long braid down her back. "How does a woman like you manage to cause such men as your husband to pay for her return? Why can he want you back, when you must treat him as haughtily as you do me? What sort of man is he, who would let his wife command him? Surely he will know you have been used by me, if not by my men. What lies will he be persuaded to believe?"

"I am the daughter of Dux Pol of Lorraria. My husband is Gerefa of Leosan Fortress," she said stiffly. "They know my worth."

"Your worth?" he jeered. "What is that? Are you made of precious stones or do you carry your husband's child, that you have worth beyond what any woman has?"

Her jaw lifted. "You are too ignorant to recognize—"

Dellingr stroked her braid. "I know a woman has the worth of her children and the value her husband has for her. How many children do you have, Hohdama? Living children?"

Her color heightened; she disguised her shock with an attack. "So that you can abduct them, and hold them for ransom, as well?"

He regarded her narrowly. "Remember where you are."

"In the country of the Danes," she shot back, making it an accusation. "Where I have been brought by despicable rogues who live like dogs, in kennels." She knew that Leosan Fortress was not much better

a place than this Danish village, but she measured the place against her father's castle in Lorraria, and found the Danes wanting. "The ransom you demand is not going to come soon enough for me."

"You should be softer, and more compliant," said Dellingr. "It is not right that a woman should hold herself aloof from men." The hand that had caressed her side had moved; he covered her breast and sank his fingers into her flesh, smiling as she recoiled from the hurt he gave her. He pinched her nipple through the fabric. "Not much to hold onto."

Pentacoste was on her feet, hardly aware of getting there. "You will not speak to me this way! You will not touch me!"

Dellingr reached up and tugged hard on her arm, pulling her back down onto the bench, holding her there with iron determination. "I will speak to you in any way it suits me. I will use you as I wish in my own house. While I hold you, I will have you. You will listen and be grateful I do not knock out your teeth for defying me. Now, eat!" He grabbed his plate and shoved it toward her. "And drink."

She lashed out at the skull-cup in a single, hard movement. Her knuckles struck hard, and the cup rocked on its claw-footed base. "No!" In the next instant she had spilled the mead over herself; she shrieked in outrage as she lurched back against the bench, nearly falling.

"Be still!" Dellingr seized her around the waist, pressing his face against her breasts as she struggled in his grasp. "I will have you."

"No!" Pentacoste grappled for the cup, and raised it to smash it on Dellingr's head, but he anticipated her attack, and swiftly reached to stop her. His hand closed on her arm relentlessly as she made a futile attempt to get away. Her free hand flailed, found purchase against his beard, and she shoved as hard as she could, driving him back to the length of her arm. She felt more than heard the fabric of her bliaut tear, and she screamed at the aff'ront, wrenching desperately in his grasp and stumbling back as he lost his grip on her body, though her bliaut remained fixed in his grip.

Aghast, Pentacoste pulled away from the ripped bliaut, standing in her chanise, her arms crossed protectively over her torso. She was about to scream her fury at this indignity when Dellingr surged across the space between them and feU upon her with all his weight, toppling them both to the floor.

The other slaves in the room took their food and moved aside, studiously avoiding giving the struggling figures any attention.

Pentacoste gasped as Dellingr landed on her; she could not get enough air into her lungs, and the only sound that came from her was a strangled mew as she strove to breathe.

Dellingr paid no heed to her suffering as he wrestled with their clothes. He kept his arm pressing on the base of her throat to keep her silent and still. He tugged at her chanise, and at last it tore from her neck to the hem. Quickly he bared her body and pushed onto his knees; he unfastened his belt, letting his braies slide to his ankles. Then he was on her again, her wrists secured in one hand as he pried her legs open with the other. She was not ready for him; he had to ram into her dryness four times before he reached full penetration. He cursed her with each thrust, pounding her with all his weight, slamming against her, making his invasion of her as much of a punishment as he could.

The only consolation she could find was that the whole unspeakable event was over quickly. He jerked, convulsed, and spilled into her, then collapsed on her, panting and exhausted, sweat gleaming on his forehead. He lay full length on her, recovering his breath and letting her bear the whole of him. As he levered himself off her, to kneel straddling her, he struck her hard in the face twice. "That's for resisting," he told her. "And to rid you of any burden of your husband's."

Pentacoste spat at him, and was struck again for her impudence.

Getting to his feet, Dellingr pulled his braies up and fastened them to his belt. Once it was secure, he kicked her. "You will not refuse me again." He left her lying where she was and went to retrieve his cup. When he had drained it, he came back to her side. "If you fight me again, I will break your legs."

"You are—" She could not find a word damning enough for what she thought him to be.

"You are mine, Hohdama," declared Dellingr, moving away from her. "Whenever I want to have you, you will comply, and with more willingness than this time, or you will regret it." He folded his arms and glared down at her. "Get out of my sight."

"You will forfeit my ransom if you touch me again." She had rolled onto her side and had drawn her knees up against her chest. She would not let him see her weep. "I will denounce you."

"When the ransom comes, you may make conditions. Until then, as long as you are in this village, you will do as I tell you." He picked up her bhaut where it had fallen. "This is ruined."

"Because of you," she said bluntly. In spite of her best intentions tears ran down her face.

He laughed unpleasantly. "You will have to earn more clothes if you are not to go naked."

This was too much for her to endure. She pushed herself into a crouch and glared up at him. "You would not!"

"Oh, but I would," said Dellingr, taking dehght in her impotent

wrath. "If you please me, I will give you clothes. If you do not, you will have none." He saw by the shock in her face that he had found her weakness. "Our women are fine weavers. You could be wrapped in new wool tomorrow, if you will comply tonight."

Pentacoste wanted to find his ax and sever his head from his body. But he was on guard against her, and would be watching for her to strike at him. She shivered, not from cold but from the plan that was burgeoning in her mind. Deliberately she made herself sink to the floor, her hands to her face to cover her sobs. Let him assume she would capitulate. Let him pride himself on besting her. That was the beginning. Galling though it was to grovel before this impudent Dane, Pentacoste realized that it was necessary for her schemes; she could make him dance to her tune in time. He had never known a woman of her quality before, she was certain of it. She would use this to her advantage, for she could make him yearn for her with dogged desire. He would come to hunger for her more than starving men hunger for food. Then she would tell him what he would and would not do. And then she would have cloth from far away, brought from the East by caravans to Starya Ladoga, and across the Baltic in merchant ships, which would land at Hedaby and Slieswic. This Dane would dress her in silks before she was done with him. The old gods would not desert her in her need, not after all she had done for them. She placed one hand on his foot. "All right. Tell me what I must do," she whimpered, noting with satisfaction that he preened at this supplication.

Dellingr reached down and took her by the hair. "You show good sense, Hohdama." He hauled her upward, forcing her to her feet. "You know where I sleep. Go there and wait for me."

She looked over at the captive slaves, huddled at the far end of the table. "It shames me to have them see me like this." She was testing him as well as telling him the truth.

He cuffed her ear. "You are one of them. What diff'erence does it make if they see you naked?"

"They are . . . not high-born." She met his eyes directly. "They are beneath me. Can't you understand that?"

Dellingr scowled. "You may well be beneath them one day, if you continue to talk that way." His implication was unmistakable.

Pentacoste would not show her repugnance for fear of what the Dane might decide to do. She could feel the places where he had struck her growing painful and swollen; she would be badly bruised by morning, she had no doubt of it. She put her hand to her aching face. "I pray you, let me have a blanket at least."

"You may have one, when you go to my bed. If you please me." He

nodded toward the slaves. "If she continues to disobey me, I will ask you to teach her to mind." He turned back to Pentacoste. "If she will not learn, she will be yours for as long as you want her."

"Never!" Pentacoste could not keep from crying out. "You would never give me to the Hkes of them."

"That is up to you," said Dellingr, then his expression went crafty. "Until your ransom offer is received, I will keep you by me, as my woman. What happens then will depend on how you have pleased me."

This was more in the line of what Pentacoste planned, and she lowered her head, as if in consent. "You do not need to threaten y:.c so cruelly. Master, to have me serve you."

"Don't I?" asked Dellingr, dragging her close against him. "This is my promise to all of you. And the other slaves will bear witness. If you satisfy my demands and your ransom is sufficient, I will send you back to your father or your husband, if either wants to pay for your return. If they will not ransom you, then I will not keep you; you will serve these slaves as you serve me." His voice grew louder and deeper, and he leaned toward the slaves, leering at them as he turned Pentacoste in his grasp so that the captured men could see her. "My oath and honor upon it."

Pentacoste staggered as he suddenly released her and shoved her in the direction of the alcove where he slept. "They will pay, whatever the price; my father will not permit his daughter to endure you," she said, certain that by then Dellingr would not want to give her up to anyone, for any amount. Her father's men, or Berengar, would have to kill him for her to wrest her away from the Dane, so great would his passion be for her. She held her arms to conceal as much of her body as possible, and made her way to Dellingr's bed, pretending she did not hear the whispers of the slaves as she went past them.

There were calls and vows coming from the slaves; Halvor was among the loudest, claiming he would reduce Pentacoste to true humility. Dellingr encouraged them with rough laughter. For a time all Pentacoste could hear was the boasting of the slaves in ways they would bring about her degradation.

If only they would let her weave, she told herself as she sat on the bed and drew the covers around her. If she could weave, she could invoke the powers she needed to gain the control she wanted to have. Then DelHngr would kill those men for their lewd speculations, and would protect her from anyone who attempted to take her from him. She would ask in the morning if she could be allowed to weave with the others. If they would give her a spindle and some wool, she would be

able to imbue the yarn itself with the spells that would give her the means to master her captor. With anticipation, she lay back, working out how she would snare Dellingr in the web of her weaving.

"I meant what I said," Dellingr announced a short while later when he returned to his alcove; his face was more flushed than before, and his Germanian slurred. He stared at her. "I will give you to them if there is no ransom."

She did her best to look frightened, but by now her plans were so well-developed she found it difficult to muster the necessary amount of horror. "I will do as you wish."

"Yes, you will, slave," said Dellingr, coming toward her unsteadily. He yanked her covers away and gloated down at her body. "My handiwork is coloring nicely," he told her as he began to loosen his clothes.

Pentacoste gritted her teeth, reminding herself that she would not have to put up with much more of this. It would not be long before her father paid her ransom, and then she would demand that the Danes be punished for their effrontery. As Dellingr mounted her, she forced herself not to struggle against him. If she could not work her full powers on him he might still make good on that threat to give her to his captured slaves. With that unbearable prospect to caution her, she tried to put her attention on other things than what Dellingr was doing to her; once she had him in her control, she would exact recompense for these humiliations.

Text of a letter from Gerefa Amalric on the 19th of November, 939, to Dux Pol of Luitich, carried by men-at-arms, and delivered on the 4th of January, 940.

To the most puissant Dux Pol, greetings from Leosan Fortress.

Although the Margerefa Oelrih has said that you wish to hear nothing more from this place, I have taken it upon myself to return to you the few items of jewelry belonging to your disavowed daughter, Pentacoste. It is the opinion of the Margerefa that these correctly belong to you, for she had no children to inherit them.

We have received no further word in regard to the fate of Pentacoste since messengers carried word to the Danes that no ransom would be paid; no wergeld has been sent to this fortress, so it must be assumed she is living still. The Danes do not want to go to war over a captured woman, so they will send the wergeld when she is dead.

In accordance with your wishes, her name has been removed from the fortress records in the muniment room; now it is as if Gerefa Giselberht

had but one wife and became a monk of the White Christ after she died. Brother Andoche, the Margerefa 's scribe, has inspected the records and will testify that your daughter's name does not appear anywhere.

The monks of Holy Cross Monastery have consented to remove Pen-tacoste's name from their records, as well. There is a new superior there who is of good family, and he understands these matters. He has vowed to make a full report to King Otto about what has been done and decided in regard to the daughter you have cast off. Any word of her eventual fate will be reported to him, of course, but he has given his word there would be no official record kept of this news.

As the sworn vassal of King Otto, champion of the White Christ, I commend myself to you. Should you ever require my service again, you have only to ask it, and it will be done.

Amalric

Gerefa, Leosan Fortress

by the hand of Brother Desidir

of Holy Cross Monastery

Epilogue

An exchange of letters between Atta Olivia Clemens at Aigiies-Mortes in Francia to Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus in Rome, the first sent the 11th of September, 962; carried overland by messengers and delivered the 30th of October, 962: the second sent on the 24th of December, 962; sent by ship to Fraxinetum and carried overland by messenger to Aigiies-Mortes and delivered the 12th of February, 963.

To my dearest and most vexatious friend, my greeting to you on this very warm afternoon of Saint Paphnutius's Feast.

He is the one who is supposed to have converted Thai's, isn 't he? Or was that another one of those dreary desert hermits? Never mind. I am sure it will not matter in another century or two.

I see that Otto has made good his oath and come to Rome at last. Very well, I admit you were right when you said that his ambitions would lead him south. I did not think he would be able to beat back the Magyars and the Slavs as well, to say nothing of holding the Danes in check and putting down the rebellions of his own vassals. Now if you will only explain to me what this Holy Roman Empire nonsense is, I shall think myself part of the world again. The Empire is centered in Germania, isn't it? And it is not an Empire as we knew when Nero reigned. And as for holy! What pressure did Otto use on Pope John XH to make him consent to this ludicrous fiction?

Niklos has finally found a villa that he deems suitable for raising horses, and in a short while we will be living there. We are currently posing as half-brother and -sister: same father, different mothers. This seems to forestall any awkward questions we would otherwise have to answer. Nevertheless, it does aggravate me that all the property must be in his name. In Rome, in my youth, laws were more sensible.

You will be pleased to know that I have found a lover at last, one who is not caught up in adoration of Christ, or seeking political advantages that are supposed to come attached to Romans. He is unaware of my true nature, but he has not reached the point where that is necessary. If it becomes necessary, I will tell him and trust that he will not be overcome with horror; as you warned me many centuries ago, I must be prepared for that eventuality, little though I want it.

Sanct' Germain, I miss you. I miss our long, pleasant conversations, and I miss our long, pleasant silences. I miss hearing you play the kithre and the liutus. I miss your smile and I wish it were not so rare. And once

in a while I miss the embraces we shared so long ago. But I do not miss the grief that haunts you; I want to banish it from your thoughts and your reveries. Yes, it is true that if you had had any choice in the matter you would never have gone to Saxony. But I am grateful that you did, for to have you face the long torture of death by water is more unthinkable than the anguish Ranegonda's memory brings to you. And you have told me that you treasure her and her memory, which sharpens your loss.

I know: if there were not this pain, there would not be the deep love, and for that we would both be the poorer. You must pardon my desire to let you have the passion and the cherishing and yet spare you the ache of mourning. You have told me much the same thing from time to time, and it has succeeded as well with me as this undoubtedly will succeed with you, which is to say, not at all. Still, if you must grieve, will you let yourself be truly comforted? Will you find another woman to love you more than pragmatically? I can do nothing more than hope this for you, being of your blood and your life. Do me the honor of loving again, with the fullness of your love.

Enough of this. You will find a list enclosed of the merchants of this area trading in Otto's enlarged Kingdom — or Empire. And you will find a lock of my hair to give you happier memories than you have from that silver-and-sapphire pectoral.

By my own hand and with my enduring, fondest love,

Olivia My treasured, dearest Olivia, You are exasperating when you are right.

Saint-Germain (his seal, the eclipse)

BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

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And there Saint-Germain will come to love the embattled Ranegonda-love her f(>r the

0X of Wood she gives him, and for her in-

^rhiti^fe spirit.- -'

Yarbro's Count Saint-Germain is one of the best-loved, most popular vampires in all of literature. His passionate exploits have been chronicled in seven previous novels, including the recent DARKER JEWELS, as well as OUT OF THE HOUSE OF LIFE, BLOOD GAMES, and HOTEL TRANSYLVANIA. Chelsea Quinn Yarbro lives in Berkeley, California.

Praise for CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO

"Le Comte de Saint-Germain is many things: healer, scholar, lover-and vampire. Out of the House of life is a revealing, all-new look into the Count's exotic and mysterious past. Chelsea Quinn Yarbro has created the most memorable and original vampire since Bram Stoker's Dracular -The Bookwatch

"Any book by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro is a keepsake; any new book by her is a must-read. She's a cult favorite, a fan's dehght. Her specialty: Vampires."

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